


Remorseless Winter

by ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)



Series: Chronicles of War [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: But Still Mostly Lore-Compliant, Death, Death Is A Hell Of A Drug, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Northrend, Oh Honey, Slightly More Canon-Divergent, Undeath, War, Wrath of the Lich King, You Thought The First Two Were Bad, You ain't seen nothin' yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-10-14 03:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie
Summary: The Lich King is awake, and the eyes of the world turn to the frozen wastes of Northrend. War is here, and the restless Scourge never sleeps.Violet and Tyri'el still have their own battles to win, but what can two people do against the march of death itself?--Spans the entirety of Wrath of the Lich King.





	1. Obligatory Boring Info and Disclaimers

_Legal Stuff: Canon characters, names, places, etc, are property of Blizzard Entertainment. I only own my OCs and the bullshit I put them through, no matter how much I wish I could write them into canon ( **seriously, Blizz, hmu).**_

\- - - - -

**Chronicles of War**

**Book 2: Remorseless Winter**

————

 

_A Few Things To Know About My Universe:_

 

(Check out the first two books in the series or you're going to be hella lost.)

 

I'm pretty sure you guys know all this by now. As accurate of lore as I can manage. Wibbly-wobbly timeline. Bigger world. Yadda-yadda.

 

——

 

**Soundtrack:**

https://open.spotify.com/user/dqymjowdxoqkr1i05wxw3iydu/playlist/7eVyhPO5lGY9BYhk1oosLW?si=kSQqizalQR6fpnfQYyYIIg

 

——

 

Thank you to everyone who follows my work - you guys are the absolute best and I love each and every one of you! 

 

And, as always,

**_FOR AZEROTH!_ **

 

 


	2. One Last Memory

Stepping through the portal feels like crossing over into another world. Gone are the calm, colorful skies over Stormwind, replaced by the muted grays and purples of an evening in Northrend. Vibrant splashes of blue and green cut through the dull night sky like haphazard strokes of a paintbrush, making the open air of Dalaran’s Silver Enclave courtyard into a captivating scene. Violet stands, transfixed, with her gaze set on the heavens, only realizing she’s stopped in her tracks when Dacian’s arm comes around her waist to gain her attention.

“I didn’t think something so beautiful could exist in a place like this,” she says, leaning her head back against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her temple.

“And now you’re here, as well,” Dacian murmurs, and Violet turns to look up at him. He’s wearing a reserved smile, but there’s worry behind his eyes. It’s an expression he’s worn often since she’d pledged herself to the military, like he’s worried she might up and vanish into thin air if he looks away. She steps up on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss to his lips, brushing a dark curl out of his eyes.

“Don’t look so sad on my account, blackbird. You know I’ll always come back to you.”

“I know,” he replies softly, studying her face. “I only wish I could go with you.”

Violet worries her lower lip between her teeth, unsure what to say to that. She knows she can take care of herself, be it against the harsh, unforgiving landscape or an army of undead, but she hates to see him in such distress. The thought of him facing the same things as she soon will be stirs unease in her gut, and she’s glad that he’ll be staying safely behind the high walls of Stormwind.

“That’s a worry for another day, I suppose,” Dacian says finally, taking her hands and squeezing them. “Just think, by this time tomorrow, you’ll be my wife.”

“Light help us both,” she replies with a smirk, and earns a short laugh from him. It’s a rare sound, even now, and is more precious to her than anything else she can think of. She’s spent months chipping away at the ice he’d drawn around his heart since they’d parted, and underneath, she’s found the man she fell in love with - still colder than he had been, but coming back into his warmth bit by bit.

“And Light save our souls if we’re late to arrive at the manor.” Dacian kisses her, just a quick embrace, and they move out into the city. The air is chilly, but hidden magic keeps it only as cold as a summer night, and the cherry trees and vibrant flowers are still all in bloom despite the surely bitter cold of the outside world. How an entire city can be thousands of miles away from where it had been - and now hovering hundreds of feet in the air - is well beyond her comprehension, and she’s once again reminded just how powerful mages really are.

They pass the steps leading up to the Violet Citadel, and she tries not to think of the last time she’d been inside the magnificent tower. Her eyes dart every which way, scanning each face in both the hope and the fear that she might see one figure amongst the crowd. Tyri’el is here somewhere, and the ache that had dulled over the last few months returns at full force, sucking the air from her lungs. Somehow, being here makes the wound as fresh as the day it had been ripped into her heart, and she finds herself clinging to Dacian to keep herself from stumbling under the pressure in her chest.

The Goddard manor comes into view around the twisting curves of the avenues, and Dacian opens the the gate so they can slip inside. The trees in the courtyard are lit with dozens of tiny, sparkling magelights, and the fountain is full of waterlilies and floating candles. Laughter and soft music wafts out from inside the manor, and Dacian squeezes Violet’s hand as he pushes open the front door.

“Praise the Light, there you are.” Barrett comes into the foyer from a side room, pulling them both into a quick hug. “Mother’s been ready to send out a search party for the last half hour.”

“We’re early, Bare,” Dacian says with a hint of exasperation, and his older brother holds up his hands.

“You know how she gets. Don’t shoot the messenger.” Barrett inclines his head in question, his eyes trained on Violet, and she gives him the smallest of nods in response. His questioning gaze turns into a smile and he gestures with his head towards the dining room. “Come on, then. With you two here, maybe she’ll stop asking me when I’m going to find a nice girl to settle down with.”

“When Tanaris freezes over?” Dacian asks, and Barrett smacks the back of his little brother’s head. They enter the dining room, met with cheers and raised glasses from around the table.

“Oh, you made it,” Marian says, standing from her chair and embracing her son in a tight hug before moving on to do the same to Violet. Her eyes are already misty, and she takes one of each of their hands in hers. “This celebration is long since overdue.”

“Far too long,” Dacian says, reaching out to take Violet’s free hand with his. Little footsteps approach them from around the other side of the dining table.

“Up!”

Nicklaus jumps up and down at his uncle’s feet, and Dacian chuckles and lifts the boy into the air to rest on his hip.

“He’s been asking after you for days,” Karina says, managing a side-hug with both Dacian and Violet around the sleeping infant in her arms. Landon doesn’t come to greet them, instead sharing a silent nod with his youngest brother and no more than a passing glance with his soon-to-be sister-by-law. Last to greet them is Renaud, who comes in a few moments later with a fresh bottle of wine that he sets on the table to embrace them both.

“Come, sit,” Marian says, pulling them towards two empty seats at the head of the table opposite her and her husband.

Dinner lasts a few hours, filled with laughter and stories, and a few last-minute details regarding the ceremony to come. Violet can’t remember the last time she smiled so much, or laughed as deeply, and as the evening winds down, she finally starts to realize that this is her family now. It’s been so long since she’s felt like she belonged anywhere, and she takes Dacian’s hand under the table just to make sure this is all really happening. His expression suggests he’s thinking the same thing, and he leans over to peck her on the cheek before they rejoin the conversation.

When dessert is all gone and drinks run low, Karina and Landon excuse themselves to put their children to bed, and with an exaggerated yawn, Barrett announces he’s going to bed, as well. That leaves only Dacian’s parents with them, and after a few minutes of quieter conversing, Renaud pulls his son from the room for what Violet assumes is some kind of talk meant to impart wisdom about their marriage. She expects the same from Marian, but the older woman is quiet for a long time before she looks up and speaks.

“You did what I asked,” she says softly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You brought my son back to me.”

Violet feels tears spring to her own eyes, and she stands from her chair and crosses the space to wrap her arms around her. Marian weeps softly, looking up at her after a long moment.

“Thank you, Violet. I could ask for no better wife for him.”

Violet only nods, unable to find the words to express her own gratitude. Dacian and his father return soon after, and the two pairs say their goodnights and part ways. The trip upstairs to the room Violet will be staying in is far too short, and they stop at the door and share a long, deep kiss, foreheads resting against each other when they part.

“Why does just one night apart seem like a lifetime all of a sudden?” He asks, brushing his thumb over the ring on her left hand. “And why does it feel like I’ll wake up come morning and this will have all been a dream?”

“I’ve thought the same thing,” Violet admits, feeling his heartbeat against her chest where they’re pressed together. She kisses him again, softer this time, and brushes the tears from his eyes before they have a chance to fall. “But this is real, blackbird. We don’t have to dream anymore.”

He nods to himself, sucking in a hitched breath. Violet strokes his cheek with her thumb, knowing that these are tears of happiness, but hating to see them nonetheless. Dacian finally looks up at her, and the depth of emotion in his clear blue eyes makes her heart clench.

“I love you, Violet,” he says, crushing her to him in a hug that’s both desperate and excited at once.

“And I, you,” she replies, closing her eyes and breathing him in. They stand like this for some time before the clock in the foyer starts chiming the late hour, and with a sigh, Dacian pulls back.

“Sleep, little moon.” He kisses her forehead, lingering for a moment before opening the door for her. “I’ll see you come morning.”

With that, he leaves, and she’s left alone in the hallway, shivering in the absence of his heat. The room set out for her is dark and cool, and she takes a moment to start a small fire in the hearth just to chase away the chill. She turns from warming her hands by the flames to see the white outline of her wedding dress where it’s hung on the armoire across the room. Excitement and nerves war inside her, and she sits down on the end of the bed and flops backwards to stare up at the ceiling. Her mind wanders, from thinking about the day to come to worrying over her last few weeks before leaving for basic training, but as time passes, she finds her focus drifting elsewhere.

It had been easier to push away thoughts of Tyri’el when she’d been in Stormwind, thousands of miles away from him and presented with unending distractions, but now, she can almost feel his presence somewhere in the city, and she can’t help but drift back into memories of the time she’d spent with him. There’s guilt just beneath the slow current of thoughts, and she knows she shouldn’t be thinking of Tyri’el when she’s hours away from her wedding, but his memory won’t leave her be.

For all his sadness and doubt, he had been so bright a light to her, guiding her through the darkness she had thought was her only home. She had hated him when she’d wakened in the Undercity - and wished to kill him on several occasions - but he had shown her such care that it had turned so quickly into something else, something tender that she hadn’t anticipated. By the time she had realized how deeply she’d fallen for him, it was far too late to turn back.

She misses him deeply now, alone in the darkness with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. His presence had been the very best kind of drug, soothing the ache inside her like nothing else could, and without asking anything in return. Just a smile could chase away the storms always roiling inside her, and only a gentle touch could soothe the beast when it yearned to break free. He was the sun, and she had stared too long.

Being here, so close to him and yet still so far apart, has ripped away all pretenses of healing she’s crafted over the past months, leaving her raw and aching with bitter tears clouding her vision. Word for word, she replays every promise he’d ever made her, and everything she’d ever promised him, until a scream builds in her chest only to die in her throat. Her fingers claw into the blankets beneath her and she hauls herself upright, looking around the room before her eyes settle on the window.

 

—

 

Warm against his fingers, the ember pulses slowly as Tyri’el scoops it out of the small box. Al’ar is still dormant, slumbering inside the gem-like essence, and Tyri’el holds it in cupped hands and watches the colors flicker across the surface.

He’d kept the trinket box in his desk, all but giving up on the endeavor to make a more permanent home for his father’s beloved companion, until the haze of alcohol had lifted from his mind. The withdrawal that immediately followed his vow of sobriety had been brutal, leaving him little more than a quivering mess on the floor of his bathroom for several days, but that was when he’d found that even in this inert form, Al’ar is a source of comfort for him. Each time he thinks he can’t possibly resist the need to pour himself something to drink, he scoops out the ember and holds it tightly to his chest as a reminder that he is a sin’dorei, a child of the blood, and he will not be cowed so easily.

When his hands no longer shook from withdrawal, he began to work on a way to keep Al’ar close to him at all times. The enchantments he thought would contain the phoenix proved just as futile as they had when he’d first started, but he remembered what Verigos had said, about weaving the magic into the vial instead of outside of it. This made the glass stronger, certainly, but still not enough to contain the remains of a god. It was only when he took the blue dragon’s second piece of advice - thread the glass with cobalt - that he made any progress of note.

Tonight, the vial is finally complete, and he undoes the stopper and holds his breath as he tilts his hand to let the ember slide inside. No cracks form in the glass, and the enchantments are unstrained as the seconds tick by. After a full five minutes of watching with a shield spell on the tip of his tongue, Tyri’el replaces the stopper and inlays the final containment spell. The magic settles over the vial, no bigger than his thumb and made to look like any other piece of jewelry, and he lets out a sigh of relief. He senses something akin to contentment from the phoenix that is by all rights bound to him now, and he allows himself a smile as he leans back in his chair. All he needs now is a chain and he’ll be able to take Al’ar with him wherever he goes, a sort of constant reminder of the strength he is reclaiming, but that is a matter for the morning. For now, his work is complete.

Leaving the vial suspended within a magical shield in case it should shatter once again, Tyri’el stands from his chair and extinguishes the lights, moving down into the small living room on the first floor. Senna sits on the sofa, a quill clutched in one hand as she copies text from a book propped up on one knee. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, the tip of her tongue poking out from one corner of her mouth, and Tyri’el pauses mid-step and thinks of just how much she looks like her father in this moment. When she sighs and slams shut her book, he sees her mother.

“Something wrong?” He asks as she caps off her ink with a pout. In that expression, he sees a bit of himself.

“Arithmancy is stupid,” Senna replies, wiping her fingers on a piece of cloth and sighing when the ink doesn’t budge. Tyri’el snaps his fingers to light the boiler under the teakettle and comes to sit next to her on the sofa, taking her hands in his to pull off the stains and send them back into their bottle with a simple spell. She watches him work, pushing a sigh out through her nose. “I’m not even good at magic.”

“You are still young. You have plenty of time to practice,” Keldra says, coming inside with an armful of laundry fresh off the line in the backyard. She pecks both her son and her granddaughter on the forehead as she passes before disappearing up the stairs. Senna sticks her tongue out after her and sinks back into the sofa with her arms crossing over her chest.

“Why don’t we look at it again tomorrow? I’m sure it will come easier with fresh eyes.” He stands and offers her a hand. “Let’s get you ready for bed in the meantime.”

“Will you read me a story?”

“Of course.”

Senna grins and jumps off the couch, not taking his hand a she races up the stairs without him. Tyri’el shakes his head with a small smile, straightening up her schoolwork before moving to the kitchen to pour them both a steaming mug of tea. He still has the reflex to pour something stronger into it, but he remembers to take a step back and breathe like Rhen taught him to.

“I am stronger than this,” he murmurs under his breath, repeating the affirmation silently to himself as he picks up the mugs and leaves the kitchen. The spare room upstairs now houses two beds, one for Senna and one for his mother, and his niece is already dressed in her nightclothes and settled under the blankets when he comes in. She accepts the tea from him as he sits, trading the mug for a thick book she checked out from the Violet Citadel library the day before.

“What shall we hear tonight?” He asks her, and she shrugs, blowing on her tea. He opens the book and fans through the pages with his thumb, opening it wide to a random page. Settling into his best storyteller voice, he begins to read. By the time the story is over, Senna’s eyelids are drooping and he takes her mug from her slipping grasp and places it on the table between the two beds. She snuggles into the blankets as he pulls them up around her and murmurs a soft goodnight.

“Night, Uncle T,” she replies, already half-asleep. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Me too,” he says, blowing out the candle. “Sleep well.”

Her mumbled response follows him out the door, and he ascends the stairs to his own bedroom. His mother is folding clothes at the end of his bed, and he comes and sits beside her, sliding off his boots and running a hand through his hair.

“Are you well today, sundrop?” Keldra asks, glancing at him as she uses magic to smooth the wrinkles out of one of his vests.

“Better than yesterday,” he admits. “I finished the vial.”

“Your…Kael would be proud of you.” Keldra sets down the vest and sits next to her son. “I am, as well. You have come so far.”

She kisses his temple and pulls him into a hug.

“Belore always rises, even after the darkest of nights,” she says, holding him for a long moment. “You will overcome this, my sun.”

Tyri’el manages a tired smile, one his mother returns, and he stands from the bed and gestures to the clothing.

“I’ll see to this. You should rest, mother.”

“As should you.” She gathers the clothing and moves it to a nearby chair, squeezing his hand. “Goodnight, sundrop.”

He nods behind a yawn, and Keldra moves to the door, pausing and looking back at him.

“I am right downstairs should you need me.”

“I know, mother. Thank you.”

Once she’s gone, Tyri’el moves into the bathroom, scrubbing the day from his face and running a brush through his hair. There are deep circles under his eyes, evidence of how little sleep he’s getting lately - no surprise when he’s spent months drinking himself into a blackout rather than falling asleep naturally - and even the golden glow in them looks dull and listless. He can see now how poorly he’d been taking care of himself, and bites back at the bitter taste of shame that rises in the back of his throat. The urge to wash it away with a drink comes again, and he closes his eyes and draws a breath in through his nose.

“I am stronger than this,” he says to his reflection as he opens his eyes. The image of him reflected back doesn’t look entirely convinced of his words, and he scowls, moving away and coming back into the bedroom. Beginning to change into his nightclothes, he undoes the first button on his vest and stops, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he catches movement from the corner of his eye. He turns slowly, calling power into his hands, and watches as the shadows in the corner of the room part to reveal a cloaked figure. There’s no scent of magic that would betray it as Verigos once more, and the figure is silent for a long moment, as if hesitating, before they pull back their hood to reveal their face. Whatever magic he’s summoned fizzles out upon recognition.

“Violet?”

It’s more of a choked sound of disbelief than an utterance of her name, and Tyri’el finds himself taking a half-step forward before pausing. This has to be a hallucination, some belated side-effect of his sobriety, and he waits for the wraith to scream out with barbed words. Every other symptom has been somewhat tolerable, but this…this is too cruel. It must show on his face because her posture sags as she takes a hesitant step towards the window she must have crawled in through.

“I’ll leave, if you ask it of me,” she says quietly, sounding far too timid to be some twisted image conjured from his mind to torture him.

“Stay, please,” he finds himself saying, dropping his hand as soon as he reaches it out towards her. Of all the times he’s imagined seeing her again, none of them could have prepared him for how strongly he wants to reach out and pull her to him. It’s as if his body remembers every embrace and has no concept of the months they’ve spent apart, of how hard he’s tried to forget what it feels like to hold her. He takes another step, hating how she looks like she thinks he might lash out at her at any second. “I…I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

“Nor did I,” she says, eyes lingering on his in fleeting curiosity. “But I couldn’t stay away. Not when…”

She shakes her head as if to clear away an unpleasant thought.

“I’m so sorry, Tyri’el.”

The way she says his name, so gently and full of care, brings back everything he’s shoved away and tried to kill inside of himself. She looks well, her golden hair falling around her shoulders to frame her mother’s locket. He’s suddenly very self-conscious, and he worries what she must think of him, thinner and more world-weary since she last saw him. It’s only when he realizes what she’s said that he finds his voice again.

“Sorry? What for?”

If anything, he should be begging for her forgiveness. He was the one who had broken his promises and sent her away. He was the one who failed.

“I never meant for this to happen. I should have…I didn’t…” She seems to struggle for words, her hand coming around her necklace in an achingly familiar gesture. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“You—” Tyri’el stops, about to blurt out whatever he can think to placate her, to make that haunted look leave her face, but he knows that she’s too clever to believe such an obvious lie. After everything he’s done, she deserves better. “The blame is ours to share, I think.”

Violet seems to think on that for a moment before she speaks.

“I wish you would have let me explain.”

Belore’s wrath, those words cut like hot steel. He knows he should have listened to her, trusted that she would tell him the truth, but the voices of doubt and self-loathing keened too loudly in his ears for him to see that at the time.

“What would you have said?”

Violet takes a step towards him, still hesitant, and stares at the floor for a moment, seeming to gather her thoughts.

“I would have told you that I believed Dacian was dead alongside my family in Loch Modan.” Her eyes climb higher, stopping on the scars just visible over the collar of his shirt. “I never spoke of him because I…I didn’t want to remember the fate I left him to when I ran. It was best to leave his ghost without a voice.”

That, at least, he can understand. He’s never spoken to her about Capernian for much the same reason.

“If you had only let me see you.” There’s anger in her trembling voice, and Tyri’el ducks his head in shame.

“Forgive me,” he says quietly, but he knows she can hear him all the same.

Violet closes the distance between them and takes his hands in hers, seemingly abandoning her hesitance all at once. He jumps at the sudden contact, looking first up at her, and then down at their hands where they’re twined between them. Her hands fit perfectly with his, something he hadn’t realized he had forgotten.

“I am a coward for what I put you through, and I…I never…there was _never_ any competition for my heart, Tyri’el.” Tears emerge through the fierce look in her eyes, and her golden brows draw together as if she’s in great pain. “You promised me I would never have to live without you.”

“I…”

What can he possibly say to that?

Nothing, he realizes. Nothing could ever make up for that betrayal.

Now, stronger than ever, the urge to find something to drown the gnawing ache in his chest comes over him, and he knows Al’ar is downstairs and he can’t risk waking his mother or niece. He panics for a moment, and as if on instinct, wraps his arms around Violet and crushes her to him. She startles at the contact, rigid for a moment, before dissolving into him. Her hands fist into his shirt and she buries her face in his neck, breaths warm against his skin as she shakes with silent sobs. The contact eases some of the pain radiating from his chest, and he clings to her and closes his eyes because _Belore’s splendor_ shes’ really here in his arms again.

Violet mumbles something against his neck and he pulls back, looking down at her in question.

“If you had asked me to choose,” she says, sniffing and looking up at him from under wet lashes, “I would have chosen you.”

She says it like it’s the truest thing she knows, and he can only stare blankly down at her as he tries to process what she’s just said.

“And…” he begins after a long moment. He wets his lips, weighing each word carefully before speaking. “Would you still?”

Her pale eyes slide away from his, down to her left hand, and he follows her gaze to see that she’s still wearing her engagement ring.

“I’ve made promises,” she says, fingers still curled around the fabric of his vest, and he can feel them tremble. “I can’t break them. I can’t break him.”

Whatever careful balance Tyri’el has managed to strike between sorrow and joy crumbles as the consuming hurt rises again, smothering out any pretense of hope he may have had. Violet seems to notice the change in him, and she only grips him tighter, pulling him back when he starts to move away on instinct.

“I am a selfish creature for loving you both,” she says, her eyes tracing the dark lines of his scars where they trail up to his jaw. “But I can’t cast either of you out of my heart, no matter how hard I try.”

Her kiss is tender, almost shy, and Tyri’el finds himself leaning into it for just a moment, savoring it before gripping her shoulders to push her back gently.

“Why are you here, Violet?” The words are cold but there’s no malice in his voice, only a thinly-veiled note of longing mixed up with his confusion. She’s to be married tomorrow, and yet here she is, kissing him as if they’ve never been apart. Their bodies are still pressed close together, and he’s keenly aware of every breath she takes in the space between question and answer.

“If I have to go the rest of my life without you, then I…”

She falls silent, and the finality of her words settles over Tyri’el like heavy stone. She’ll still marry someone else, still have some other life without him. He looks down at her, seeing what he fears he would - the hunger in her seaglass eyes that pools heat in his gut.

“What are you saying?” He asks, hating just how much needs her in this moment.

“Please, dalah’surfal,” Violet replies, taking in a shaky breath through her nose. “Give me one last memory of you to hold sacred.”

It’s wrong when he kisses her so hungrily now, wrong when he leads her to his bed and presses her down into the mattress, and worst of all is how much it thrills him to know that she would risk everything for one more night together. He knows he’ll be broken when he wakes up in an empty bed come morning, but this gift is too precious to worry about paying the price.

For now, he denies her nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I love hearing what you think, so drop me a comment, darlings!~


	3. Saying Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "Don't worry guys, this one will update a lot more frequently!"  
> Also Me: *Loses all motivation to write and waits over a month to get her ass in gear*  
> Also Also Me: *Writes 11,000 words to make up for being a terrible author*

There’s a stranger staring back at Violet from the other side of the glass.

She has her eyes, the same soft blue-green as the south seas, and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, but the woman reflected back to her is as unfamiliar to her as if they’ve only just met. Some part of her feels like she’s living someone else’s life, about to marry someone else’s childhood love, but the butterflies in her gut warring with the sick weight are enough to ground her in the present - this is her life, and her wedding day.

The tri-fold mirror gives her a faceted view of her entire figure, of the fitted lines of the white dress magicked to look as bright and pure as newfallen snow, and she smooths absently at the soft fabric. Her golden hair is drawn back into an intricate updo with pearl-tipped pins holding it in place, and tiny wild violets from the hills of Elwynn are tucked amongst the curls. Her lips are painted a gentle pink, and her eyes are rimmed with kohl that the high elven saleswoman had promised would last through the many happy tears to come.

The longer she stares, the more she begins to feel like a porcelain doll, painted up to be something she’s not.

Somewhere beyond the rectory of Dalaran’s cathedral, guests are gathering in the pews, awaiting the ceremony now three years overdue. There’s only a few minutes left now before all eyes will be on her, and she can’t remember the last time she was this wracked with nerves. Perhaps when she’d had her first audience with King Terenas on the day she became a fledgling member of the Silver Hand, or fittingly enough, when she had first been brought before Sylvanas to learn her fate. Both times, her life had changed, and both times, it had not lasted.

Dacian will be there this time, waiting for her at the end of the aisle with his gentle eyes and soft smile, and the thought of him eases some of the tension within her, if only for a moment. Other eyes, once green and now golden, come to mind, as do the memories of soft sighs and wanting kisses and the smile that never once failed to chase away darkness and storm clouds.

The ache in Violet’s chest returns, thinking of Tyri’el and how she had woken at the first hints of sunrise to find herself in his arms again. For those few blessed moments, she had existed solely in the space between his soft breaths, eyes tracing every line of his face and committing it to memory. He’d looked nearly like an angel to her, his long hair catching the rising sunlight as it fell across his sleeping form beside her, and she’d run her fingers through it with the smallest of smiles. Then a clock had chimed and she’d heard movement in the lower levels of the house, and all at once, reality had come crashing down around her. She’d been loath to leave his embrace, to move from the warmth of the bed and the heat of his body that she hadn’t realized she had craved, but she’d left anyway, dressing quickly and sparing once last look at him before slipping out the window. No one had noticed she’d been gone, and by the time Marian had come to wake her, she’d already bathed to scrub away any lingering trace of him left on her skin.

Now she stands alone, empty and aching, and wishes she was anywhere but here.

A soft knock comes on the door, and she calls for them to enter. A blond head peeks around the door and Violet’s face brightens as she turns from the mirror.

“Light, Vi, you look…Light.” Anduin steps into the room, shutting the door behind him with his eyes wide. He blinks as he remembers himself, cheeks going crimson, and clears his throat. “Father said I could check in with you. Let you know we arrived all right.”

“I’ll admit I was worried,” Violet says, smiling at the young man. “Though, I think you could have manged to sneak your way to the Mage Quarter if push came to shove, yeah?”

“He understands how important it is to me that I be here today,” Anduin replies with a small shrug. “Half the Royal Guard is here already, but he’s no less on edge about me being somewhere the Horde has such easy access to.”

“They’d have to get through me first.” Putting her hands on her hips, she looks at him with mock seriousness. “I could still take any one of them, wedding dress and heels or no.”

The prince snorts, and Violet relaxes. There’s something sad behind his eyes, different from the usual hint of sorrow he always seems to carry, and he looks down and away for a moment before his gaze rises to meet hers.

“Are you nervous?”

Violet cocks her head to one side, considering his question. He’s far too observant for his own good, and wise beyond his years, and she lets out a small sigh as she looks down at her dress.

“Is it that obvious?”

Anduin shakes his head, scuffing the toe of his boot on the stone floor.

“I know I would be terrified.” The young man winces, just a small expression, and then it’s gone and replaced with a smile that Violet doesn’t quite buy. “I’m happy for you, Vi.”

“Oh, come here,” Violet says, holding out her arms, and Anduin obeys, meeting her for a hug. She would never admit out loud - to him, or anyone - that she is terrified, but he seems to sense it in her and tightens his arms around her.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says quietly. She can’t help but wonder if he’s only trying to soothe her nerves, or if he means to assuage something deeper. Months ago, when she’d first arrived in Stormwind, he’d been the one she’d unwittingly confessed her struggles to, and she doubts he’s forgotten.

“Promise me something,” she says, already putting her eye makeup’s integrity to the test.

“Anything, Vi, you know that,” Anduin replies, sounding so much older than he is. Violet pulls back to look him in the eye, the words coming heavy and thick from her mouth.

“Promise me that if you ever fall in love, you will stop at nothing to keep them beside you.”

“I…” Anduin’s brow furrows as he pauses, and all at once he’s back to being a child, having never known what’s it’s like to love someone so deeply you would die for them, kill for them, forsake anything and everything just to see them safe. Still, he seems to understand the gravity of her plea, and he nods. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” Violet wipes at her eyes and gestures to the door with a jerk of her head. “You should get back to your father.”

“Will you be all right?” He hesitates, hands still on her upper arms as if he wants to pull her into another hug, but she nods and shoos him towards the door.

“Don’t worry about me. Brides are supposed to cry on their wedding day, yeah?”

“Vi—”

“Go on.”

She opens the door and and he starts to leave, stopping halfway and turning back to her with his mouth open like he means to say something, but gives a small shake of his head before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. Violet wipes at her eyes again, trying to compose herself, and wraps both hands around her necklace. She wishes now for her mother, to ask her for guidance, and prays to the Light for the strength to make it through the coming day. Silence is the only answer, even inside a cathedral that should be filled with the Light’s warmth, and she shivers.

There’s a knock on the door, and a moment later, Katherine enters the room with something clutched to her chest.

“It is time, my—” The paladin’s eyes go wide, filling with tears as she looks over her former charge. “Light’s love, child.”

She moves to Violet and pulls her into a tight embrace, and the younger woman can swear she feels her former mentor shaking as she does.

“I could have sworn you were my dear Ellie just then,” Katherine says, and Violet returns the hug with uncertainly, only ever remembering seeing the normally stoic woman weep like this a few times before. Foremost in her mind is the worst day of her life, when Katherine had dragged her away from her mother’s bedside, the stench of rotting flesh and burning wood already filling the air over Stratholme. She feels very much like that child now.

“I wish she was here,” Violet says quietly, and Katherine pulls back, her fingers coming up to brush at the locket around the other woman’s neck.

“She is here, my dear. Your mother is always with you, so long as you have this.” Looking up at to meet her eyes, Katherine seems to struggle for words. “I know that I am not her, that you would rather she walk with you today, but I am honored that you asked me nonetheless.”

“I would think of no one else. You’ve been like a mother to me, Katherine.”

“And you, a daughter.” The paladin unfurls her hand, revealing a small velveteen pouch. “These are for you.”

She turns the pouch on-end, dropping the contents into her palm. It’s a pair of earrings, gold inlaid with shimmering opalescent gems in the shapes of teardrops. They appear incredibly old, and Violet looks from them to the other woman in question.

“My mother, Light rest her soul, wore these on her wedding day, as did her mother and her mother’s mother before her. I will never have a wedding day, nor a daughter of my own, and I can think of no one better to trust these to.” Katherine holds her hand out to Violet. “I want you to wear them.”

“Katherine, I…” Violet begins, reaching out hesitantly and looking up at her former mentor, who only nods in encouragement. “I would be honored.”

She takes out her simple pearl earrings and trades them for the heirloom gems, turning back to the mirror to admire them. Katherine comes to stand behind her, putting her hands lightly on her shoulders to bestow a quiet blessing, and the calming warmth of the Light floods Violet’s body. It takes away some of the tension and her shoulders relax, but the clawing nerves remain in her gut, and her heart starts to hammer.

“It is time.”

Those words seem the gentlest kind of death sentence, and Violet bows her head for a moment to once again beg the Light for any scrap of strength it can spare her. Katherine takes a bouquet of flowers from a side table and hands it to her, and she clutches it in shaking hands, eyes tracing the lines of the flowers to try to calm herself. White lilies, roses, baby’s breath…and at the heart of the bouquet, tucked away where only she can see it, is a single Stratholme lily. The dark purple of its petals stands out amongst the white of the others, and she can’t imagine where the florist might have found one. They’re all but extinct to her knowledge, just another thing of beauty driven out of existence by the Scourge and its plague. She dares to smell it, immediately recalling the feel of her mother’s arms around her, of her gentle laugh and kind eyes.

“She is with you,” Katherine says, seeming to know all too well the memories that the scent calls up. “The Light is with you.”

Violet can only nod, and they leave the rectory and move down the hallway towards the main hall of the cathedral. Each step feels weighted down as if by heavy stones, and Violet’s thoughts drift to Tyri’el. The ache in her chest grows swiftly, and for the briefest moment, she finds herself yearning to run from this place and find him, to take him by the hand and flee to somewhere no one will ever find them. She thinks of him as she’d last seen him, at peace as he’d slept, and wishes that it was him she’ll see in only a few fleeting moment’s time.

She loves Dacian from the deepest part of her being, but it’s the love of a foolish child. The heart that resides in her chest now is that of a warrior, forged in the fires of sacrifice and strife and unadulterated bliss…and it belongs to Tyri’el.

“Excuse me, lass.”

Violet pauses, having somehow overlooked the small frame that emerges from a doorway as they pass. It’s a dwarf, her long, copper hair braided over one shoulder, and as she pushes herself off of the door frame, Violet can’t help but think she knows her from somewhere. Her scent is familiar, but no name and no story come to mind, only a small pressure between her eyes that she has no time to dwell on.

“Forgive me. Jus’ wanted ta wish ye all tha best.” The dwarf pats her arm. “Ye deserve all the happiness the world can manage, lass.”

“I…thank you,” Violet replies, glancing at Katherine, who seems just as confused as she is. “Do we know each other?”

The dwarf’s eyes turn sad, and she blinks back tears.

“In another life, lass.” A sad smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “Light watch over ye.”

She’s gone just as quickly as she came, down some side hallway, and Violet is left to wonder after her for only a moment before Katherine puts her hand on her shoulder and they begin to walk again. The double doors of the main hall come into view all too quickly, and the two women pause before them and clasp hands.

“I am proud of who you have become, my dear. I watched you grow from a homesick girl to the bravest of young women, and I am glad this day has finally come for you.” Katherine leans down to press her lips to Violet’s forehead. “May the Light bless both of you.”

The paladin nods to the Royal Guard stationed on either side of the double doors, and they move to push them open. The women link arms, and Violet sucks in a deep breath, straightening up and beginning what she knows will be the longest walk of her life.

The cathedral beyond is filled with people, all of them turning and rising to their feet as the doors open. An organ begins to play from somewhere up above, and the two women begin their ascent up to the altar. All the faces along the sides run together, a sea of people all watching them with awe, and Violet finds she can’t bear to look any of them in the eye. A hundred feet feels like a thousand miles, and at the very end of it stands Dacian, dressed in the deep emerald of House Goddard, his eyes wide and his mouth open in wonder. He is a beautiful sight, everything she ever wanted for so long.

Now, he is all wrong.

They stop at the foot of the altar, and Dacian reaches out for her hand, only to be met with a tight grip on his wrist from Katherine, all but hidden to anyone but them.

“Care for her well, young man, or you will answer to the Light, and to me.”

“I will, Dame Montrose,” Dacian says, and the conviction in his words forces Violet to suppress a nervous shiver. Katherine nods stiffly, taking Violet’s hand and squeezing it gently before placing it in his. Violet gathers her skirts and steps up to stand with Dacian, handing her bouquet to Karina behind her before joining both hands with her betrothed. She can sense his nervous energy, and she’s strangely calmed by the way his hands are shaking around hers. He offers a small smile, one she finds herself returning despite the feeling that she’s standing beneath a meteor doomed to hit at any moment.

The priest begins to speak, but Violet barely hears him, losing herself in Dacian’s eyes. Standing here, in front of his family and friends and the Light itself, they’re only teenagers again, stealing kisses around corners and dreaming about their forever. She loves him deeply, but she mourns for Tyri’el in this moment, and she can only pray that the feeling will fade and she will once again find peace.

“Violet, I have loved you since first we met,” Dacian says, and Violet blinks, realizing that he’s begun his vows. “You are my light and my heart, and I praise the Light with everything I am that you are mine.”

His grip on her hands tightens, and though he speaks loud enough for all to hear, Violet knows he’s speaking only to her.

“My world ended when I lost you, and I thought I would never find myself again.” He puts his hand on her cheek. “You returned to me, like first light breaking after the longest night, and I am forever in awe of you for it.”

A low conviction overtakes his voice, and he takes her hand once again.

“I would give my life a hundred times over to see you safe, and I swear to you before the eyes of the Light that I will hold you and keep you safe until we draw our last breaths.”

Dacian takes the ring from Barrett behind him, and slides it onto her finger.

“I love you, little moon. I am yours forever.”

Violet blinks back tears, looking down at their hands where they’re twined together, and forces herself to speak.

“Dacian, you have loved me when I could not love myself, and taught me to see the beauty in the smallest of things. Never once have you wavered, and I love you all the more for it. You are my anchor, my one constant, and I promise to give you all that I am in hopes that I might repay your love even the smallest bit.”

Karina hands her the ring, and she slides it onto his finger with a small smile meant just for him.

“You are my greatest love, blackbird, and I am yours forever.”

Dacian answers with a beaming grin, barely waiting for the priest to pronounce them husband and wife before pulling Violet close and kissing her like she’s his only source of air. The assembled crowd begins to clap and cheer, rising to their feet as the newlyweds turn to face them. Dacian’s grin is infectious, and Violet finds herself smiling as well.

Barrett claps his younger brother on the shoulder, pulling both him and Violet into a hug with each arm. Renaud and Marian embrace their son and new daughter-by-law, and Karina gives Violet a tearful hug. Several members of the Kirin Tor emerge from the pews and begin to cast, opening a wide portal that Dacian guides Violet through.

On the other side is the backyard of the Goddard manor, the hedges around the edge dressed up with long swaths of white cloth and pots filled with blooming flowers. Long tables surrounded by chairs line the outer edges of the space, with the patio left open in the middle. Guests file through after them, and the festivities commence.

It’s later in the evening, after dinner and speeches and much celebrating, that Violet and Dacian dance in slow circles to gentle music under a waxing moon and the northern lights. Her head rests on his chest, her arms around his neck and his around her waist, and she lets out a small, contented sigh. The day has been long, and she’s beginning to grow tired, her eyelids drooping to the gentle shuffle of their feet.

“This is real, isn’t it,” Dacian murmurs, kissing the crown of her head. Violet lifts her head to gaze up at him, blinking slowly in the twinkling light shed by the hundreds of tiny magelights floating over the backyard.

“You’re not dreaming, blackbird,” she says, caressing his cheek. He takes her hand and turns it in the light, studying the two rings that now adorn her left hand.

“My wife.” He lets out a soft huff of air, part laugh and part sigh of relief. “So strange to be able to say it.”

“Strange to hear it,” Violet admits, much more numb to the panic and sense of loss than she had been only hours ago. His eyes meet hers, reflecting the light of the space, and she loses herself in them and the promise they hold.

“I don’t want to give you up,” Dacian says after a long moment spent in silence, and his hold on her tightens. “I’ve only just gotten you back, and I…”

Violet kisses him gently when his words run dry, trying to soothe his fears.

“You shouldn’t have joined the army. The war effort will be just as strong without you, and—”

“Shh.” She presses her lips to his, silencing the start of an argument they’ve had many times before. “Not tonight.”

His expression darkens, and his hand flexes around her in what she knows is stifled anger, but he says nothing further.

“Excuse me, Guard Captain. Might I steal your lovely bride for a dance?”

“By all means, your highness,” Dacian says, pecking Violet on the cheek before handing her off and moving towards his parents with an unreadable expression. Violet watches him go, a small furrow in her brow, before turning to face the prince.

“How are you holding up?” Anduin asks, looking for more than his simple question suggests. He’s kept a close eye on her all evening, no doubt seeing how she’s deflated as the hours have gone by, how she’s drawing more and more into herself despite the peaceful mask she wears. She takes his hand and they begin to dance, slow but hardly intimate.

“Well enough.”

By the way his lips purse, the prince doesn’t believe her, but with other guests so close on the dancefloor and conversation not quite drowned out by the music, he doesn’t press her for more.

“This is the first wedding I’ve been to,” he says, and Violet silently thanks him for trying to keep the conversation light. “I don’t suppose I’ll be to another anytime soon.”

A resigned sigh pushes past his lips as he looks around the backyard, his eyes finally resting on his father where he’s seated off to the side, not conversing with anyone. Varian, while still cutting an imposing figure, looks distant and quietly sad as he glares down into his goblet.

“He’s thinking about my mother,” Anduin says, seeing that Violet has followed his line of sight. “Their wedding was the only one he’s been to up until now, I think.”

He looks away from his father and back at her, glancing down at her locket for a moment.

“Do you think it strange that I miss her sometimes, even though I have no memories of her?”

“No,” Violet says, a sharp tug in her chest at the thought that she knows all to well what it feels like to miss a parent never known. “It means she’s a part of you, that you—”

Like a splash of cold water, something washes over Violet and renders her silent. Her hand drops from where Anduin’s holds it aloft, and she takes a step back, fingers coming up to cover her nose.

“Vi, what’s wrong?”

Violet looks around, seeing nothing out of place, and drags in a deep breath. The stench of undeath grips at her, talons deep in her chest, and her body begins to shake as the adrenaline floods in.

“It’s all right, Vi, look at—” Anduin stops mid-reassurance, blowing out a breath through slack lips to watch it rise between them in the drastically chilled air. A shadow passes over them, cutting a long silhouette in the moonlight, and their gazes turn upward. A massive form, something that must have once been a dragon but is now little more than bones and rotting flesh, soars above the city and opens its maw to let forth a deafening bellow. An eerie moment of complete silence follows before screams cut through the now-frigid night air.

The Royal Guard are the first to react, surrounding Anduin - and by extension, Violet - from all sides, and Varian barks orders at a few of them to send them rushing from the backyard. Panic sweeps quickly through the guests - most are frozen in fear, others are rushing for their loved ones. Dacian is at Violet’s side in an instant, as is Varian to his son.

“What’s going on out there?” Varian asks as the two guards he’d dispatched return. They’re pale beneath their helms, looking between their king and their Guard Captain.

“The city is besieged, your majesty.” The guard pauses to swallow hard, his northern accent punctuated by knowing fear. More screaming echoes from the city around them, and the ground beneath them shakes as if from some great impact. “It’s the undead. It’s…him.”

A moment of shock passes between those assembled in the small group, and the king closes his eyes, the wolf’s presence clear when he opens them again.

“How many?”

“Too many to count. An army of ghouls, at the least, and Light only knows what else.”

Varian growls, the muscles in his jaw and throat straining as he thinks.

“Kirin Tor,” he shouts, gaining the attention of several guests at the party. “Open portals to the Silver Enclave. Evacuate everyone you can to Stormwind.”

“We can’t, milord,” one of the mages replies.

“Why not?”

“Something is dampening our magic.” She holds up her hands in desperation, eyes sparking with power, before it flutters out like a snuffed candle. “No one can cast.”

The king curses under his breath and looks to his Guard Captain.

“We’ll have to escort them on foot,” Dacian says, looking over the assembled guests with the eyes of a tactician.

“There’s no way to move such a large group through a swarm of undead, sir.” One of the more senior guards shakes his head. “Not with so many young ones and womenfolk.”

“They can hold their own.” Violet shoots him a dagger glare, then sets her eyes across the yard on the manor. “Get everyone inside, up to the second floor. You can barricade the doors on the ground floor and use the foyer staircases as choke points if any get inside.”

Dacian nods, stepping away to begin calling everyone together. Varian grabs his son by the arm, yanking him roughly towards some of his guards.

“You three, get him to the portals at the Silver Enclave and see him safely back to Stormwind.”

Anduin tries to free himself from his father’s crushing grip, but to no avail.

“I want to stay, father. I can help defend—”

“Go, boy. You’re no good in a fight such as this.”

The raw hurt is clear in Anduin’s eyes, and he sputters out the beginnings of another protest as the guards out towards him. Violet puts her hand on the prince’s shoulder, stepping between him and the guards.

“I’ll take him.”

Varian seems to consider her for a moment, leveling his gaze with hers, before nodding curtly.

“Protect him with your life,” he says, and Violet dips her chin, eyes just as steeled for battle as his.

“With my life.”

Varian spares a final glance at his son before moving away, shouting orders to his guards and the capable fighters. Anduin is silent, saying nothing as Violet ushers him towards one of the long tables. She pushes aside abandoned plates and glasses, searching the flatware for sharpened serving knives, and shoves the first one she finds into the prince’s hands. With some effort, she finds two more for herself, flipping them in her hands to test their weight - they’re certainly not as useful as her shortswords would be, but they’ll do.

“Come on,” she says, pulling Anduin with her towards the side of the house. Dacian moves away from some of his men as the pair comes around into the front courtyard, stepping between them and the gate.

“What are you doing out here?”

There’s shouts and the sounds of metal meeting flesh from out in the street, and the acrid scent of decay is everywhere. Violet catches a glimpse of a ravening ghoul just beyond the gate, its powerful jaw locked around the arm of a Silver Covenant ranger, and tries to push past her husband, but he keeps her where she is.

“Get back in the house with the others.”

“The king ordered me to bring the prince to the Silver Enclave,” she says, unable to help the ranger before the ghoul bites off his face. She holds Anduin upright on reflex as he sways at the sight, and locks eyes with Dacian. “And even if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting idle while Arth—”

“It’s too dangerous.” He grips her by the shoulders in desperation. “You can’t go out there.”

“Yes, I can,” she replies, shrugging out of his grip. To her sensitive ears, the whole city is a chaotic mess of terror and battle, and the beast inside her slavers at the prospect of battle against the Scourge. With each moment that passes, there will be more undead in the city, and her chances of keeping Anduin safe and getting him out of Dalaran drops.

“What are you trying to prove?” Dacian grabs her again, oblivious to the fact that Anduin is jerked back and forth between them each time they grasp at the other for control.

“Let go of me, Dacian.” Ice creeps into her voice, and she finds herself with a snarl building in her chest when he doesn’t relent. Her head is awash with the scent of fear and blood that carries on the wind, and the line between her thoughts and the instincts of her other self begins to shift and blur. Still, Dacian holds her firm, the command ebbing from his posture and then his face. In the few seconds that their eyes are locked, he goes from a soldier to just a desperate man fearing for his wife.

“Please, little moon, don’t—”

Something warm splashes down onto Violet’s cheek as the flutter of wings passes over them, and Violet reflexively pulls Anduin out of the way of the reaching talons of a gargoyle as it swoops down. The corpse of an orc hits the pavestones beside them, clawed beyond recognition save for the telling green of its skin, and Violet forces Anduin’s face down into the crook of her neck to keep him from seeing it.

“We don’t have time for this, Dacian. Get out of my way,” Violet says, pushing past her husband with the prince in tow.

“Keep yourself alive,” he shouts after them, his broken words all but drowned out by the din of battle beyond the walls. The ghoul that had attacked the ranger looks up from his corpse, its decaying face covered in gore, and reacts a moment too late as Violet bears down and decapitates it.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she tells Anduin, seeing how his eyes are glazing over as he goes into the first stages of shock. “Don’t look around, just look at me.”

He nods blankly, knife still clutched to his chest with hands that have begun to shake. Violet guides him through the street, wanting to stop and help every assailed citizen, but the prince’s safety is the only concern she can afford right now. More than once, she stumbles and almost loses balance because of the heels on her shoes, and she finally pauses for a moment and pulls them off, using them as a thrown distraction to guide a wandering ghoul out of their path.

“Only a little farther now,” she assures Anduin, heaving away the corpse of a ghoul that had leapt out at them from a doorway down a side alley. His eyes are fixed in wide-eyed terror and his steps are little more than slow shuffling, and Violet has no choice but to drag him along with a grip on his arm that will surely leave bruises. He shouldn’t have to see this - no one should - and she tries to spare him as much of it as she can.

The Silver Enclave isn’t much farther, and two quel’dorei rangers rush out from the building as soon as Violet and Anduin come into view. Using their bodies as shields, they guide them into the Enclave itself, and Violet pulls Anduin towards the portal that shows the Mage Tower in Stormwind on the other side, though the image flickers in and out.

“Look at me, Anduin,” she says, forcefully turning his head to get him to look away from a long trail of fresh blood that looks like it was left by a body being dragged across the floor. He blinks a few times like his eyes won’t adjust, and seems to snap back into reality. “Find someone who can get word to High Commander Wyrmbane. Tell him Dalaran is under attack and needs the Alliance’s aid.”

“You…you’re coming with me, aren’t you?” Anduin drops his knife to take her hands in a desperate grip.

“I need to stay and fight.” Violet looks over her shoulder as a thundering crash sounds from outside the Enclave.

“If you are going through, you need to do so now.” One of the quel’dorei gestures to the portal that is flickering more violently now. “It will not remain open for very much longer.”

“Repeat what I told you.” Violet pulls out of Anduin’s grip and shakes his shoulders.

“Find High Commander Wyrmbane, Dalaran needs aid.”

“Good,” she says, giving him a quick hug. “Now go.”

“Vi—”

She shoves him through the portal, sparing only a moment to feel bad for handling him so roughly, and not a breath after he disappears, the magical gateway snaps shut in a shower of arcane sparks.

“Belore help us,” the high elf says behind her. Violet whirls around to face him.

“I need proper weapons,” she says, holding up the serving knives that have already begun to rust under the ichor of the undead they’ve dispatched. “Daggers, axes, anything but these.”

The elf nods, gesturing for her to follow him deeper into the Enclave. The long skirts of her wedding dress keep her from moving quickly enough, and after tripping over them a number of times, Violet stops and takes a deep breath before plunging one of her knives into the fabric. The fine silk parts easily, even to the dulled blade, and she manages to cut away enough of the dress to allow much freer movement of her legs.

“Take whatever you may need,” the ranger says as he opens the door to the armory and ushers her inside. He eyes the hasty alterations to her dress but doesn’t comment on it as he cracks open a crate to refill his quiver with arrows. Violet finds two shortswords on a nearly-empty rack, and then a small sheathed dagger on a nearby table, shoving the latter down into the bodice of her dress.

“Good luck, young one,” the elf says as he rushes for the door. “May the eternal sun light your path.”

“Light keep you,” Violet replies, and he’s gone. She looks around the armory, contemplating taking the time to change into something sturdier like the studded leather armor displayed on various racks and dummies, but the sounds of fighting very close by tell her she has no time to spare. A swarm of mindless ghouls floods into the main courtyard of the Enclave as Violet comes back into it, and she helps the Silver Covenant members still present to slay them. From the wary glances they shoot her, she must look like a madwoman, thoroughly disheveled with her teeth bared as she strikes with lethal precision.

Once the ghouls are dead, she wipes the putrid, blackened ichor from her cheeks and moves out into the street. A ranger lies prone on the red-paved stones, trying to fight off a ghoul with only her legs as she cradles a badly-broken arm to her chest. Violet charges towards her, reaching out to dig her fingers into the rotting flesh of the ghoul’s back to haul it off of the flailing elf. The mindless undead screeches in surprise, the sound cut off as its head is severed from its body. Wiping her hands on her already soiled dress, Violet helps the elf to her feet and helps her back into the Enclave to hand her off to her fellow rangers.

“There are too many of them, and too few of us left,” the ranger says to her comrades. “We must fall back to the inner chambers and—”

“We will not retreat.” A silver-haired quel’dorei descends the staircase from one of the upper levels with a small group of archers, and the ranger looks properly chastised.

“Yes, Ranger-General.”

Vereesa turns glowing blue eyes on Violet, and the human is struck by how much she resembles her older sister. She looks kinder, perhaps, but no less stern in the face of danger.

“I saw what you did for my ranger. Thank you, human.”

“Of course, Lady Windrunner.” The name tastes less bitter on Violet’s tongue as a simple honorific rather than an admission of ownership, but she still dips her chin in deference. Vereesa nods at her, then looks back to her rangers.

“Hold the Enclave. Be unwavering in your defense.”

The rangers salute and carry their wounded comrade away, and the Ranger-General looks to Violet.

“We go to find High King Wrynn. The company of a skilled fighter such as yourself would be most welcome.”

“I’d be honored, Ranger-General.”

“What may we call you, then?”

“Violet, my lady.”

“Well then, Violet,” Vereesa says, a fierceness overcoming her that is eerily similar to a look Violet has seen in Sylvanas, “we have Scourge to kill.”

They move out into the city, and with a team of rangers expertly skilled with both bow and blade, any undead they encounter in their path fall quickly and violently. Violet can’t help but notice the lack of intelligent Scourge, seeing only ghouls and skeletons roaming about rather than anything that might have retained some of its mind after being raised. She’s by no means well-versed in the Scourge ranks, but she knows enough to see that something is out of place here. Someone has to be directing the lesser ranks, but from where?

“No sign of a commander,” Vereesa says, apparently on the same train of thought as she straightens up from pulling an arrow from the corpse of a ghoul. “These are all foot soldiers.”

“No sightings of that undead dragon since the attack began,” one of the rangers says, picking stray bits of gore from his long black hair. “We’ve seen no death knights, no necromancers.”

“Dalaran was only recently teleported to Northrend,” Vereesa says, keen ranger’s eyes taking in every detail of their surroundings. “The Lich King sees everything through the eyes of his minions. This could be little more than a scouting mission.”

“Couldn’t he have just sent spies? Those inconspicuous enough to not raise alarm?” It seems like a waste to Violet to send such a large force when it’s inevitable that they’ll all be slaughtered by the city’s inhabitants. Vereesa seems to consider her words for a moment before shaking her head.

“The best way to test a stronghold’s defenses is to assault them.” There’s anger building beneath her controlled words. “He toys with us to see how we react.”

“So this was nothing more than an experiment,” Violet says, some of the snarl echoing in her head coming out in her voice. Her grip tightens on her swords, and her upper lip curls.

“It would seem so.” Vereesa takes in a breath through her nose. “Nevertheless, we must find the High King and see to his safety.”

Each time they dispatch a group of Scourge and it seems that the tide of undead is abating, another wave appears and bears down on them. It takes considerable time to move through the city, and by the time they make it into the market district surrounding the Violet Citadel, they’re all feeling the fatigue of their fighting. The undead don’t tire, and they’re forced to keep fighting to keep from being overwhelmed.

Violet swings her swords with heavy limbs, and as she succeeds in shattering a brittle skeleton archer into little more than a pile of bones, she senses a commotion from the other side of the swarming mass of rotting flesh around her. It’s another group of fighters, she realizes, and works to cut down everything between her and them as quickly as she can manage. She fells a ghoul, and in her haste, fails to realize it still has some fight left in it until she finds herself pulled to the ground by her legs. The head of a staff bashes the ghoul repeatedly, splattering brain matter everywhere, until the thing falls still and its grip on her slacks.

“Allow you to help you up, my dear la—”

The hand offered to her nearly drops her again, and Violet looks up at a familiar face.

“Belore’s wrath, not you,” Hathir says, golden eyes wide as he hauls her to her feet.

“Nice to see you, too,” Violet replies gruffly, trying to smooth her bangs away from her face without getting more grime on her face than there already is.

“Not the sentiment I had in mind,” he replies, swinging the head of his staff into the ribcage of a skeleton to send it spraying up against the wall of a nearby building. “Not after what you did to—”

“Beloved,” Rhen says, using the Light to slice through a ghoul that had been charging at his partner. “Now is not the time. He’s forgiven her, and so should you.”

Hathir scowls at him, then at Violet.

“Be glad my sister isn’t here,” he mumbles under his breath as he turns away to face more undead. Rhen frowns at him, but offers a polite nod of greeting to Violet, who does her best to return it as she swallows the guilt rising in her chest.

“Finish them off and regroup.” A female voice rises above the sounds of battle, and Violet turns slowly, something much stronger than guilt now overcoming her. Keldra stands amid a group of other sin’dorei fighters, swinging a staff with one arm and a longsword with the other, felling a good number of undead even without the ability to cast. Violet tries to turn away, to keep herself from being seen, but Keldra spots her anyway, her smooth motions faltering for a moment before coming back at full force. Soon all the undead are truly dead, and there’s nothing but empty space between them.

“Are you well, my dear?” Keldra asks, looking her over as she approaches, and Violet is reminded that she’s still in her wedding dress, soiled and destroyed as it may be by now.

“Yes, my lady,” she says quietly, unable to meet the elf’s eyes.

“Do not shy away from me, Violet.” Keldra takes the last few steps to close the distance between them, and Violet closes her eyes and tenses in anticipation of being struck.

Instead, she finds herself with arms around her, and opens her eyes to find Keldra cradling her close.

“I forgive you,” she whispers, emotion choking her words. “You are so very young, and love is a fickle thing for even the most wizened of hearts.”

“I… Violet begins, wholly unsure how to react. She’s unsurprised that Tyri’el would have confided in his mother about what happened, but somehow, anger would have been easier for her to deal with. Forgiveness isn’t something she’s given to herself yet, so to receive it so freely from another is jarring, to say the least. “I’m so sorry for what I did to him.”

“I know,” Keldra says, cradling the back of her head for just a moment before pulling back. Tenderness is replaced by determination in her golden eyes, and she turns back to into the daughter of a general that Violet had all but forgotten her to be. “Rhen, shore up any major injuries. The rest of you, take a moment to breathe before we press on.”

“I am surprised to see you in Dalaran, Margress Dawnheart. You’re quite a long way from Shattrath.” Vereesa approaches them, sheathing her bow across her back. Keldra stiffens, but bows at the waist, and Vareesa does the same. “What brings you here?”

“My son lives here, as I am sure you know, Lady Windrunner.”

There’s an undercurrent of tension between them that Violet can’t quite name, something she suspects runs deeper than the feud of moralities between the high elves and the blood elves. Neither of them seems particularly malicious, and they both look like they want to say more than they are, but the conversation remains official.

“Then you’re headed for the Violet Citadel?” Vereesa asks, and Keldra nods.

“With access to the arcane cut off, the Kirin Tor will need whatever aid we can offer.”

“We will accompany you, then,” the Ranger-General says, gesturing with her head for her rangers to join the other elves. “It seems as likely a place as any to find whom we seek.”

The smallest hint of a wistful smile touches Keldra’s lips.

“Just as we used to, hm?”

“Indeed,” Vereesa replies, sharing an almost-smile of her own. She looks to Violet with a piqued eyebrow. “The two of you seem well enough acquainted already.”

“I…yes my lady,” Violet says, keeping her eyes trained downward. Keldra takes her hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Sin’dorei,” she calls, gaining the attention of the fighters under her command. “We join forces with the Silver Covenant for the time being, and make for the Violet Citadel.”

The blood elves eye the high elves with everything from relief to contempt, but few words are exchanged between them before they’re on the move once more. The undead seem fewer as they approach the looming tower outlined against a near-full moon, most of them dismembered and dead in bloody sprays across the pavestones, but the sounds of battle come from up ahead. Now-combined forces round a corner to come into the main square at the base of the Violet Citadel to see their first glimpses of undead beyond simple ghouls.

Two hulking abominations do battle with a group of Kirin Tor mages that struggle against them without the use of their spells, many of them already bloodied and having to drag away those more heavily wounded. Beyond them, at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the tower itself, is a group of yet more members of the Kirin Tor - mostly humans, but two of the fighters are elves, and Violet’s heart leaps in her chest to see that one of them is Tyri’el. He’s fighting much the same way his mother has been, his gilded staff in one hand with a sword in the other, and he looks mostly unharmed save for superficial cuts and scrapes from the pack of strange, one-eyed undead that lunge at them with frightening agility.

“Hold them back,” a copper-haired human shouts from the group, cutting down one of the cyclopean undead before him. “They must not breach the Citadel.”

“We will afford them no such chance,” Vereesa yells, and she and her rangers charge into the fray. Keldra and her fighters follow barely a moment later, targeting the abominations, and Violet follows suit. The towering constructs possess unholy strength, felling fighters with only glancing blows of their massive limbs, but they are sorely lacking in maneuverability and are soon brought down by the combined efforts of all in the square. The smaller undead fall quickly after that, no match for so many skilled fighters, and the combined forces are left with a brief respite against the onslaught.

Violet helps Rhen lower an injured Silver Covenant ranger to the ground, and he warily accepts healing from his former countryman. She straightens up, instinctively searching the crowd, and finds Tyri’el embracing his mother across the square. Keldra whispers something to him and he stiffens, pulling back to search the assembled faces until his eyes meet with Violet’s. She must look a horrible mess, her hair falling from its updo and her dress ripped and covered in blood and ichor, but his expression softens and his eyebrows draw together in concern. He inclines his head to one side just a bit in a gesture she knows is meant to ask how she’s faring, and she manages a smile and nod to assure him that, while exhausted, she’s all right. The other elf that had been fighting beside him says something, and Tyri’el’s gaze lingers on her for just a moment longer before he looks away.

A commotion comes from across the square, towards the Alliance side of the city, and the weary fighters form ranks and ready themselves for another wave of undead. Instead, they’re met with a squad of Stormwind Royal Guards, all of them spattered with gore, but none more so than their king, who heads up the group with Shalamayne raised before him. They tense at the presence of others, but relax when they see that those before them are, in fact, still living.

“Well met, Ranger-General,” Varian calls, looking around the square with trained wariness before sheathing his blade across his back and leading his men over to the others. “I had hoped to find you here.”

“Bal’a dash, High King.” Vereesa steps away from embracing the copper-haired human, holding her fist over her heart in a salute. “We made our way here for much the same reason.”

Beside the king, Dacian’s steps falter when he sees Violet, and the king seems to notice, because he, too, sets eyes on her. Perhaps it’s just the strange angles of the flickering streetlamps that do little to illuminate the space, but Violet can swear a trace of terror passes behind the wolf’s eyes.

“My son?” He asks, and Violet can smell the fear coming off him like the scent of hot metal.

“Safely through the portal, your majesty,” she replies, and the tension visibly leaves the king.

“Thank you.” Varian gestures to her with his head, and Dacian takes a hesitant half-step before rushing over to pull her into a tight hug.

“I’m all right, blackbird,” she says, pulling back as she feels several pairs of eyes on her from nearby. She can’t bear to look at Tyri’el, or at any of them, for fear of what she might see. Dacian smooths her bangs away from her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead with a small, dry laugh.

“You continue to amaze me,” he says, quiet enough that only she can hear. Violet manages a smile in return, stepping away from him to speak to the king.

“I sent Anduin through the portal with a message for High Commander Wyrmbane, to tell him the city is under attack and needs aid from the Alliance.”

“A similar plea has been sent to Orgrimmar and Warchief Thrall,” Tyri’el says, and Violet can feel the small waver in his voice like a punch to the gut.

“Light willing, forces will arrive soon,” the copper-haired human says. “Until then, the best we can do is hold off the undead for as long as we can.”

“They must be using portals to come into the city,” Keldra says, addressing the other mages. “But with the dampening field, they must have something fueling them other than casters.”

“Necromancy operates outside the arcane,” an aging human says. His voice sounds familiar, but Violet can’t quite place it. “They very well could have portals open within the city, and their necromancers would be unhindered by whatever spell they’re using to keep our powers subdued.”

“Then we find and slay these necromancers.” Varian unsheathes Shalamayne and his guards form up around him.

“Easier said than done, High King,” Vereesa says, nocking an arrow as ghouls pour from around every corner and avenue leading up to the Violet Citadel. Battle ensues once again, and Dacian takes Violet’s hand for just a moment before he’s rushing away to join the king on the front line. All around is a chaotic mess of ghouls and geists, and Violet finds herself gravitating away from where she had started, cutting down undead in an attempt to find Tyri’el. They meet on opposite sides of a now-dismembered geist, both pulling their weapons from its decaying body at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stumbling with fatigue and finding herself held up by his gentle grip on her elbow.

“What for?” He asks, making sure she’s steady on her feet before letting go of her.

“For…everything.” She chances coming a step closer, using the sounds of fighting to mask her words from anyone but him. “I didn’t want to leave, but I…”

“I didn’t want you to, either,” he says, words as heavy as her heart. “But it was more than I could have asked for. More than I deserve.”

“You deserve the world, Tyri’el. Much more than I can give you.” Violet shakes her head, stepping backwards to move away from him. “I’m so sorry.”

If he says anything more, she doesn’t hear it, already throwing herself back into the fight with renewed vigor. She’s still exhausted, but she draws power from the anger rising from the beast inside her. Her other self has been right up against the bars of her cage for every second of fighting, howling and begging to be let out, but Violet knows that she can’t risk it. There are too many others around, and she doesn’t trust her other self to know the difference between friend and foe.

A slavering ghoul takes a wild, off-kilter swing at her and raises its other arm for another blow, but stops as if frozen in time. The other undead seem to falter as well, completely halting their assault for a few moments, much to the confusion of the assembled forces. Then, as if puppeted by some unseen force, the remaining Scourge forces turn as one and begin moving away from the living.

“They’re retreating,” one of the Royal Guard shouts, and Varian almost snarls.

“After them,” he calls, pointing with his sword. “We follow them to the portals and destroy whatever we find.”

The king rushes after the undead, Vereesa and her rangers in tow. Violet makes to follow them, but stops when some distant part of her mind tells her something doesn’t seem right. The Scourge had all moved as one, something no simple necromancer would have the power to do, and she realizes that it’s no retreat.

“Stop,” she calls after them, but it’s too late. Shapes move in the dark on the rooftops above the king and his forces, and as one, a dozen plate-clad soldiers drop down into the street all around them. Though she’s never seen one before, Violet knows that these are death knights by the way they carry themselves with intelligence and purpose, and by the gleaming runeweapons they carry, their necromantic runes glowing with cold lichfire in the dim light. Smarter than an abomination but nearly as strong, and certainly much faster, the Lich King’s elite soldiers cut down humans and elves alike as if they’re nothing more than paper dolls. Both Vereesa and Dacian throw themselves between the death knights and their king, but they can do little more than block glancing blows as they’re assailed from all sides.

Without hesitation, Violet charges into the fray, along with the rest of the living who can still fight. The lesser undead are dispatched easily, but the death knights are relentless, seemingly single-minded in their pursuit of the king. Neither they nor Varian and his defenders make much headway, but the living slowly manage to surround them, though the death knights work in unison and give little in the way of attacks of opportunity. Some turn to face the others while the rest stay facing the king, and they seem to be toying with them, wearing them down because they know that the living tire eventually and they do not. Glowing blue eyes track every move, and just as easily rebuff them. If only they could be caught off guard…

Violet feigns an injury, moving herself from the front lines as others have done when wounded, and makes her way towards the back of the group until she’s well into the shadows cast between buildings. Leaning back against the wall, she takes a few moments to steady herself, and then takes a deep breath. The shadows part and welcome her into their fold, and she disappears from sight. Moving carefully, she skirts around the building and emerges back into the street from the other side, surveying the scene before her. There is no weak spot in the death knight’s position, not yet, and she can only slink closer and wait for a chance to strike.

Dacian and Vereesa are starting to tire beyond their limits, as is Varian, and it shows in the way their offensive swings fail to connect, and how they barely manage to hold off the runeweapons continuously thrust at them. One of the death knights pauses, raising their hands up into the air to draw coils of dark energy up from the bodies that litter the ground, and Violet sees her chance. She slinks out of the shadows, coming around the back of the distracted death knight, and drives her sword into the space between the base of their helm and the top of their chestplate. The blade strikes true, severing the spinal cord, and she jerks the sword to fully separate head from shoulders. The bodies that had begun to animate fall lifeless to the ground, and by the time the death knight hits the street, Violet has already disappeared again.

The other death knights whirl to face their fallen comrade, and that gives the rest of the living an opening to gain ground. Both sides converge on the Scourge in the middle, and the king manages to grab Dacian and Vereesa and haul them both to safety amongst the others. The dead are now surrounded as well as outnumbered, but no fear shows in their dead eyes beneath their helms. Instead, they relax, but still stand vigilant despite making no moves to attack. This unsettles the living, and eyes dart around in anticipation of another trap. Violet listens above the clinking of armor and the labored breaths of those who still draw it, and hears nothing but the howling of the wind. Snow falls in fat flakes, and a few of the city’s citizens lift their hands to catch it, looking quizzically up at the sky that should be protected from outside weather.

The hairs on Violet’s neck stand on-end, and a violent shiver radiates down her spine, threatening to break her stealth. It hits the others a moment later, and the mages among them look about in panic, sensing the influx of energy very near to them. The death knights move as one, all turning to face the empty street behind the living, where the air is rippling and warping. A sound echoes across the silent square, like fabric being ripped violently apart, and a gateway materializes in the darkness, the space within somehow darker than the night itself. The air temperature drops, sucking the air from the lungs of the living, and for a brief moment, the entire city is still.

A looming figure emerges from the inky blackness, heavy footsteps reverberating off the buildings, and the shadows cast by the streetlamps seem to grow and reach out towards him. Dark metal fashioned into screaming skulls makes up his armor, and though he appears very much human in stature, the ghastly visage of the helm he wears marks him as something more. Frostmourne, the cursed blade that had taken his soul as its very first victim, remains sheathed at his side, though the eye sockets of the skull that adorns the blade flicker with lichfire.

“A valiant effort.” The Lich King watches them with little more than dry amusement, his voice sending chills through the living. “I was content to test the mettle of this so-called truce between your factions, to let you struggle against me and bolster my ranks with your slain.”

His eyes sweep those assembled, landing on Varian.

“Then you arrived, Varian. I hadn’t thought you and I would have the chance to face each other again so soon, my old friend.”

“You are my friend no longer, Arthas,” Varian says, teeth bared and eyes flashing golden. “If you came to claim my life as you did your father’s, I welcome you to try.”

He raises Shalamayne, but makes no other move towards the other man. The Lich King laughs, a booming sound that rattles in the chests of the living like thunder.

“I shall not take you today, High King. I will come for Stormwind, and for Orgrimmar.” His eyes flick to the blood elves, then to the Kirin Tor. “The Scourge will strike Dalaran from the sky, and the world of the living will fall.”

Silence settles over the square, the Lich King’s burning gaze staring deep into the souls of everyone assembled.

“You may keep your lives for now. Struggle as you will against the hand of death, but know this.” He once again looks to Varian. “In the end, you will all serve me.”

A gate appears in the midst of the death knights, and they quickly disappear through it, giving the living no time to strike before they and their gate vanish into the frigid air. Even their fallen comrade is gone, leaving nothing but a pool of dark blood where they had fallen. The Lich King sneers, turning back to his own gate.

From behind the corner of the building she’d slunk up to after he’d appeared, Violet grips at the handles of her swords hard enough that the metal begins to warp beneath her fingers. Her teeth are clenched so tightly, bared in a permanent snarl, that her jaw trembles, and the shaking travels through her whole body. It’s not her other self doing this - the beast is cowering at the back of her cage, tail between her legs, as any sensible animal would be in the face of death itself. This anger, this primal rage, belongs only to her.

She sees her mother, smells the smoke that took her life. She sees Uther, who loved Arthas like a son only to be slain without regret. She sees the Undercity, the Forsaken, Sylvanas…every bastardized piece of her former life and the lives of others that this monster has ripped away. And now here he is, with his back turned to her, as if she’s not broken because of him, alone because of him. As if he hadn’t stolen _everything_ she’d held dear.

No, this rage is hers, and it narrows her world to a single point, until all she can see is him, and she strikes.

Leaping from her hiding spot, Violet charges at him, sword raised and ready to drive into his heart from behind. Her stealth remains intact despite her lack of control, and the tip of her blade is only inches from impact when the Lich King whirls around and catches her wrist, the tip of her sword dragging across his pauldron with an ear-piercing screech. This close, the supernatural chill around him bites at her skin and sucks the warmth from her body, and he looks at her in mild annoyance - seeing right through her stealth - before flexing his gloved fingers. Every bone in her wrist and forearm shatters, and she screams out, her stealth dropping to reveal her to the rest of the living. Tyri’el shouts and drops his weapons, only kept from charging forward by both Hathir and Rhen grabbing him and hauling him back. On the other side of the street, Varian grabs Dacian before he can react, pushing him against the wall and leaning all his weight on his guard captain to keep him from rushing to her. The other human is in shock for a moment before he, too, begins to struggle and shout, but the king has too firm a hold on him.

The Lich King tosses Violet away from him easily, and she lands on her back, the air knocked from her lungs, and she chokes on her breath through the pain shooting up her arm. Something inside of her - still not her other self, who is whimpering and trembling in her cage - rises up and fuels her body to move, and though her favored hand is all but destroyed, she reaches into the bodice of her dress for the dagger there. The metal flashes in the moonlight as she raises it, driving it into the still-supple flesh of the Lich King’s back. He cries out in shock and then in anger, and before Violet realizes she’s succeeded in the most trivial of ways, a striking cold reaches inside of her and tears away all of her senses one by one.

Feeling is the first to go. Her broken arm falls limp to her side, then the one that had delivered the dagger. She doesn’t feel herself being lifted from the ground, only notices the change in angle when he brings her level to his face. Beneath the wicked helm, Arthas is still there, still as young and handsome as he had been when she was a girl, but every trace of the kind, compassionate young prince is gone, smothered out by lichfire and an all-consuming rage. His teeth are bared, much as hers had been, though her face falls slack as she struggles to drag in a breath. Her thoughts are slow to follow, and she looks down, seeing through tear-clouded eyes that he has his hand on her chest. No, not on her chest - around the hilt of Frostmourne, where the blade is driven straight through her sternum. Her hands react clumsily, reaching up to try to pull it out, but she only slices her palms and fingers without even feeling the pain.

Next to go is sound. Above the muffled rush of her own pulse in her ears, someone is screaming. It can’t be her - all that passes her numb lips is a feeble rush of air, perhaps a name, and then a spatter of blood bubbling up and out. The Lich King’s growl of anger as he pulls his blade from her is little more than a whisper to her ears, and the shriek of metal on bone is lost as she drops, completely limp, to the ground. Her knees hit the pavestones, slick with her own blood, and she falls sideways, collapsing in a world gone completely silent. The locket around her neck strikes stone, the impact sending out a single clear note, like the high plucking of a harp string. It’s the last thing she hears.

She still tastes her own blood, and the scent of it chokes at her nose, but she soon loses the ability to process all but the simplest thoughts. Cold seeps into her being, going past her skin, deeper than her muscles and bones, and down into the depths of her soul. It wraps around her like a clawed hand, pulling the life from her and ripping soul from body. Her soul cries out as her lungs can’t, though on the outside she’s left only with a blank stare, tears freezing in place where they fall to her cheeks.

Sight is the last sense to leave her. Shapes blur and swim before her eyes, and darkness creeps in at the edges of her awareness. Some things remain in focus, others disappear completely. The Lich King towers above her, a dark monolith against a starry sky, but her eyes don’t linger on him for long. They move farther, through the shapes in the crowd so very far away, towards the one who still shines like the sun.

There is no warmth left in her, and no breath with which she can plead.

She tries to cry out, to say goodbye, to tell him that she loves him and she never meant to…to…

The last of Violet’s failing vision fades, and darkness takes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for tuning in to today's episode of, "My OCs Are Fucking Stupid And They Are The Reason Bad Things Happen To Them". 
> 
> I tried to warn you, really, I did.
> 
> On a lighter note, I found out that the proper name for the wife of a Margrave is a Margravine, but like...that sounds like something you spread on your toast. So I made up Margress and now it's canon *shrug*


	4. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ugly cried while writing a lot of this chapter, so like...you've been warned.

This is a familiar nightmare.

Tyri’el dreams of Arthas often, of the day the traitorous human prince tore through his homeland and slaughtered his people, and of the vast army of undead horrors he commanded. He hears the screams of his countrymen, watches the land die under the shambling masses of rotting flesh, feels the life-giving energies of the Sunwell turn to poison in his veins, all recounted in vivid detail that’s kept him awake for more nights than he’d care to admit.

This dream, however, is off somehow, different than normal despite the familiar elements. The scent of decay and fresh blood is strong on the wind, and a soul-breaching cold bites at his exposed skin. There’s piles of slain undead all around him, many felled by his own blade, and there stands the Lich King, turning away from them as if they’re nothing more than a momentary inconvenience. It’s all there, every detail, and yet…

Even with so many of the living here and more than willing to fight the monster before them, they can’t hope to stand against him without the use of their spells. Tyri’el would like nothing more than to rip apart what’s left of the man before him, to feel the give of his flesh and hear him scream, to make him pay for what he’s done and who he’s hurt. Heat surges in his chest, and beneath the fabric of his shirt, a flicker of life stirs in the dormant heart of the phoenix trapped within the vial around his neck.

The Lich King whirls to face them again, raising a gloved hand as if to catch something. His lichfire eyes seem to focus on something very close to him, something intangible to anyone else, and with the slight flexing of his fingers, the sound of shattering bones cuts through the dead silence of the square. A scream of unadulterated agony follows, and like a heavy curtain ripped away to reveal daylight, Violet materializes out of thin air.

This is no dream, Tyri’el realizes, and his grip on his weapons goes slack, letting them clatter to the ground. He’d seen Violet slink away from the main group, and had caught a flash of her as she’d slain the death knight, but in the chaos of the fight and with the Lich King himself appearing, he’d lost track of her until now. He should have known she would lose herself, that her anger would get the better of her, and now the monster has caught her and _Belore’s mercy_ he cannot lose her, not like this.

He has no magic to call on, nothing but his own body to fight with, and though shock wants to keep him rooted in place, Tyri’el starts to move towards her. Even without the use of a blink spell, he can still make it to her and—

Two pairs of arms wrap around him, halting his advance and holding him firmly in place.

“Let me go,” he snarls, clawing wildly at Hathir and Rhen, but neither of them falter.

The Lich King tosses Violet away and she lands in a heap, coughing violently to try to draw air back into her lungs. There’s a moment of quiet shock that passes over her, but the soft seaglass eyes that Tyri’el used to lose himself in turn hard, and a darkness takes hold in her features. Even before he sees the flash of metal that she pulls from her bodice, Tyri’el knows what she plans to do, and he shouts at her to stop. The words come out in Thalassian, and he tries to repeat them in Common, but dread creeps up from his chest and he feels like he’s choking. All he can do is renew his struggle, try to free himself so he can—

“Don’t be a fool,” Hathir says through teeth grit with the force it takes to keep his friend in place. “Arthas will kill you as soon as look at you.”

“He’ll kill her, too. I can’t lo—”

“And we can’t lose you.” Hathir changes his grip and steps in front of Tyri’el, forcing him back with the full weight of his body in an attempt to block Violet from view. “We have a duty to—”

“Duty be damned and Belore curse you, let me _go_.” Tyri’el is all but foaming at the mouth, shouting and throwing every ounce of force he possesses into breaking free, but he only gains an inch or two for all his effort. He’s vaguely aware of another struggle somewhere to his left, a few words of it rising over the rush of blood in his ears.

“That is my _wife_ , Varian.”

“I know, Captain. I know.”

It’s Violet’s betrothed - no, her husband now - that’s struggling against his king, and putting up a considerable fight against the mountain of a man that is Varian Wrynn. Tyri’el sneers in his direction. If not for him, this meddling human, he would never have lost Violet the first time, never would have—

Something that almost sounds like genuine pain comes from the the Lich King, and Tyri’el's attention snaps back to him. There’s a flash of silver and then a spray of red, and a strangled cry escapes Tyri’el as he watches Frostmourne pierce clean through Violet’s chest. His vision blurs, seeing the Lich King lift Violet off her feet through tear-clouded eyes, and feels his grip on reality slipping. Whatever is left of his logic is far out-shadowed by the desperation that creeps over him, telling him that he can save her if he can only reach her.

He’s never favored hand-to-hand combat, but he remembers enough of Soven’s relentless self-defense training to allow his body to go limp, enough to trick his friends into thinking he’s collapsed, and their hold on him slackens just enough to allow him to spring up a moment later and break from their grasp. Adrenaline and blind determination let him make it a few long strides towards Violet before his nerves are set aflame and his body comes to a jarring halt. Something dark flickers around the edges of his awareness, grasping arms and tendrils of hungry, inky blackness, and he retains just enough control to turn his head to look over his shoulder.

Rhen stands with his arms outstretched towards Tyri’el, swirls of Shadow magic swimming at the edges of his golden eyes. Tears stream down his cheeks and he looks to be in genuine pain himself for having to tap into such dark powers to control his friend, but his panicked desperation is clear behind the agony. Against his will, Tyri’el’s feet begin to move him back towards the priest, but he fights against it with all he has. He only manages to stop himself from moving, unable to advance towards Violet, instead fighting against the hungry darkness so he can look back towards her.

The Lich King withdraws his cursed blade and Violet drops to the ground into a pool of her own blood, her limp body crumpling into a heap. Her locket glimmers in the pale moonlight, and when it strikes the ground, a beautiful clear note rings out in the space between her blood-choked breaths. The darkness in Tyri’el’s mind shrinks back at the sound, if only for a moment, and even the Lich King seems to pause with the smallest of flinches.

Violet’s eyes, wide and unseeing, search the stunned crowd before they settle on Tyri’el. Her small frame shivers, the motions growing smaller as her strength wanes, and Tyri’el keeps his eyes locked with hers. It’s all he can offer her, still frozen in place, and he watches as the last of the light fades in her eyes and she goes still. He can still scream, it seems, and he keens with with enough force that his throat is raw by the time his breath has run out.

A swirl of silvery mist rises from Violet’s body, drawn towards Frostmourne as the Lich King passes it over her, and the tip of the cursed blade stops near her neck, almost hesitantly. At first, Tyri’el fears he means to cut off her head, but instead, the fallen prince uses his blade to lift her locket from where it rests unblemished in its bearer’s cooling blood. He turns it in the low light as if examining it, then jerks his arm back and lets it fall back to the ground. Something like a grunt of frustration escapes him, and he lifts his lichfire eyes to the sky.

A peal of hollow thunder accompanies a flash of light, and an ethereal form descends from a rift in the starry sky. Strong, pale arms reach out and lift Violet’s body from the ground, cradling her against an armored chest as the winged woman takes to the sky once again, disappearing in a flash of blue light as quickly as she had come. The Lich King reaches up and pulls the dagger from his back, dropping it in disgust, and levels the living with a look that is at once triumphant and disdainful.

“All shall serve me,” he says, turning and disappearing through his gateway.

The moment the portal closes, whatever magic the Scourge had cast over the city to dampen the mages’ powers dissipates, and Tyri’el feels it return like an electric current. He calls up a shield of arcane energy that severs Rhen’s connection to him, and the priest stumbles over as a wave of magical feedback hits him. Tyri’el, now free of the Shadow and in full control, teleports to where Violet had fallen, using his powers to try to trace where the Lich King had anchored his portal. There’s only small traces of the dark energy left, not enough to discern a full location, but his senses tell him it’s nowhere in Northrend. Another frustrated scream escapes him, fading out into wracking sobs, and he falls to his knees. Violet’s blood soaks through the cloth of his trousers, already ice cold, and the very ends of his long golden hair drag through it, staining red as he weeps.

He could have saved her, could have—

Something catches his eye against the crimson-stained pavestones, and he reaches out towards the small glint of light. It’s an earring, he realizes as his fingers close around it, and he cups his hand to examine it. Beneath the blood is an opalescent stone, one he very vaguely remembers seeing on Violet in the brief moments she’d been near him in the fight. He curls his fingers around it, hoping vainly that it will offer him some connection to her, and holds his fist to his chest.

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he glances up to find his mother looking down at him, tears in her eyes. Aethas is just beyond her, approaching cautiously, followed much the same by Hathir and Rhen. Tyri’el swallows down the bright flare of anger in his chest, burying it deep alongside the burning grief, and stows the blood-soaked earring in his vest pocket before standing. He doesn’t meet eyes with any of them, shrugging off his mother’s hand, and moves past them to retrieve his staff. As he reaches for his sword, he finds it’s already been picked up, and looks up as Rhen hands it to him hesitantly.

“Please forgive me,” the younger elf says, voice soft and heavy with remorse. Tyri’el takes his sword without a word and sheathes it on his belt, turning away, only to have Rhen come to stand in front of him again. “Please understand that I—”

“Understand?” Tyri’el says, more of a snarl than a word. He grabs Rhen by the front of his robes and hauls him back against a lamppost, slamming him into it with enough force that the glass in the lantern at the top rattles. “I could have saved her, damn you! She’s dead because of you. I—”

“He was only following orders.”

Tyri’el pauses, looking over at Hathir as he approaches them, hands held before him in a gesture of innocence.

“Orders? From who? My uncle?” His eyes flick to Keldra. “My mother?”

“From Lor’themar,” Rhen says, the golden glow of the Light flickering from his hands as he eases Tyri’el’s iron grip from the cloth of his robes. “He ordered us to see to your safety, now that you’re…”

The priest falls silent, golden eyes flicking to the members of the Alliance still very close.

“I don’t need keepers,” Tyri’el says, pulling his hands from Rhen’s just as the gentle warmth of the Light begins to seep into his aching muscles. He wants no comfort now, no soothing, not even when he can barely breathe and he’s trembling from his core. There’s rage, fresh and raw, burning deep inside him, and he feels the weight of Al’ar’s vial against his chest like a noose around his neck. Had Lor’themar not thought him weak and in need of protection, he could have protected Violet. Had he been strong enough to break free of Rhen’s mind control, she would not have been taken. Had anyone else believed in him like she did, she would not be dead.

Commotion rises from both sides of the square, and the already weary fighters ready themselves for another wave of Scourge, raising their weapons and preparing spells in anticipation. Instead, they are met by soldiers, a group of Horde fighters from the east and a squadron of Alliance soldiers from the south. They’re all faintly glimmering with residual portal energy, no doubt both coming through from their respective capitals the moment the magic-dampening barrier had been lifted and allowed portals to connect to the city. Tyri’el recognizes the leader of the Horde forces, and spares a polite nod in High Overlord Saurfang’s direction as the seasoned warrior approaches Aethas. He’s too late, but at the very least, Thrall cared enough to send reinforcements.

“Father!”

A youthful voice rises from somewhere in the ranks of the Alliance soldiers and a young human races out from between two dwarven riflemen towards Varian, a bow slung across his back and a shortsword in-hand. The king looks up from conversing with the plate-clad leader of his reinforcements - Fordragon, Tyri’el thinks - and a short look of relief is replaced with confusion.

“You were to stay in Stormwind, Anduin.”

Anduin stops short, blinking once before drawing himself up and raising his chin in defiance. Tyri’el can’t help but feel some small amount of pity for the young man - he knows what a son wanting desperately to prove himself to his father looks like.

“There are Alliance citizens living in Dalaran. I came back to defe—”

“I’ll not argue this here,” Varian says, waving his hand with finality, and the boy flinches at his words. This, too, Tyri’el knows. “We will speak on it later.”

“Yes, father,” Anduin says, nodding solemnly. He sheathes his sword on his belt and looks around, eyes roving the crowd as if searching for someone. “Where’s Violet?”

A noticeable silence, stiff and uncomfortable, falls over those who had witnessed the arrival and departure of the Lich King. No one speaks.

“Has she gone back to the Goddard’s manor?”

Again, silence. The sick weight in Tyri’el’s gut resurfaces like a cresting wave, and he closes his eyes against the pleading of the young prince.

“Dacian?” A pause. “Where is Violet?”

Nothing.

“She’s dead.” Tyri’el opens his eyes, momentarily shocked that his mouth will even form words, let alone those words. His gaze falls on the prince, who seems taken aback at being addressed by a blood elf, and watches as a myriad of emotions passes behind his eyes.

“Dead? She…she can’t be, I just…I just saw her.” He looks around again, taking a few unsure steps, as if Violet is just out of sight and he only has to look for her, before his eyes find Tyri’el again. “She…she’s not—”

“Anduin.” Varian puts his hand on his son’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“I…” Anduin says, taking a shaky step back, then looks to the dark-haired human standing stone-still next to his father. “Dacian?”

Dacian doesn’t even seem to hear the prince, his focus entirely on Tyri’el instead. He looks to be studying him, his jaw set and his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Much the same expression finds its way onto Tyri’el’s face when he notices the human’s gaze, and he quickly turns away with a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. He glares at his mother as she approaches him, warning her without words, and starts to push past her.

“You there. Elf.”

Tyri’el pauses, only faltering a half-step before continuing.

“Turn and face me, damn you.”

He stops fully, taking in a shallow breath before tuning around. Dacian moves towards him, into the empty space in the middle of the street, and puts one hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Yes, human?” Tyri’el piques a long eyebrow, managing to keep his voice even despite the heat rising just beneath his skin. Here he is, the very reason he and Violet were ripped apart, daring to speak to him so flippantly.

“Who are you?”

Tyri’el narrows his eyes, but says nothing. He owes this man nothing.

“Answer me,” Dacian shouts, gripping at the handle of his sword but not drawing it.

“Captain,” Varian cautions, but the younger human doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Who are you?” He asks again.

Tyri’el levels him with an unimpressed look, pushing away the small part of him that notices the way the human’s whole body is shaking, much like his is.

“I am Tyri’el of House Sunfury, Archmage of the Kirin Tor.”

“And, Tyri’el Sunfury,” Dacian asks, closing the distance between them to a matter of just a few feet, “how long have you been in love with my wife?”

Tyri’el has to fight the urge to sneer, to laugh at him, letting it instead be washed away by the rising tide of grief swirling inside him. It hasn’t been nearly long enough, barely a year now, and yet it feels like she’s lived in his heart for as long as he can remember. What a foolish, tiny question when compared to the answer.

Still, he owes this man nothing. The love that burned so fiercely between them - and indeed, still does, only proven further by her seeking him out and the night they had shared - is for him to keep. She was his to cherish, to hold in his heart, no matter what may have transpired between them. In her own words, she had given herself to him - she chose _him_.

“The question you should be asking,” Tyri’el says as he takes sure, measured steps until he’s close enough that he can feel the wavering breath of the other man, “is how long has your wife been in love with me?”

In the same amount of time it takes Dacian to draw his sword and force the blade just shy of breaking the skin on Tyri’el’s neck, Tyri’el closes his fingers around Dacian’s throat as power sparks behind his eyes. He could easily crush the human’s windpipe with a spell - and in this moment, he truly wants to - but Dacian could just as easily slit his throat. They stare each other down, each with rage wrapped up around a core of grief, until a gentle hand falls on each of their shoulders.

“This won’t bring her back,” Anduin says, voice quiet but still firm. He looks at each of them in turn, eyes ringed with unshed tears. “You both know she wouldn’t want you to do this to each other.”

Tyri’el sees something soften in his opponent’s eyes, feels the cool sting of metal abate from his neck, and he lets the spell on the tip of his tongue fizzle out. The young man is right, Violet wouldn’t have wanted this, and shame begins to mix with the other volatile emotions he’s barely keeping at bay. Dacian takes a step back, sheathing his sword, and once again meets Tyri’el’s eyes.

“Whatever you felt for her, she was _my_ wife. Remember that.”

Dacian returns to his king without so much as a glance over his shoulder, leaving Tyri’el to glare after him with failing intensity. The adrenaline is gone and he’s suddenly very tired, putting his hand to his chest to feel Al’ar’s vial when the urge to drown himself in drink flares up again.

“She spoke of you, once,” Anduin says quietly, looking up at him. “She loved you very deeply, and regretted what happened between you.”

“I…thank you, highness,” Tyri’el says, somehow unsurprised that Violet had managed to befriend the prince. Anduin nods, mostly to himself, and looks over his shoulder as his father calls for him.

“I will…I will see to it that you’re allowed to see her…” He trails off, closing his eyes for a moment as if to steel himself. “To see her body. To say your goodbyes.”

Struck by the sincerity of the prince’s promise, it takes Tyri’el a moment to respond.

“There is no body, your highness.”

Anduin blinks, looking up at him in confusion. Tyri’el’s tongue feels leaden, but he forces himself to speak.

“After she was slain…Arthas took her.”

“Took her…” A short pause as the prince tries to process the implications of his words, and his eyes widen in horror as he finally understands. “Oh, Light, no…”

“Anduin,” Varian says, coming up to his son and putting an arm around him while leveling Tyri’el with a warning look.

“Forgive me, father,” the prince replies, and Tyri’el watches as he shrinks in on himself, likely both from grief and his father’s unspoken chastisement. He glances up at Tyri’el and dips his chin in acknowledgment. “Farewell, Archmage.”

“Sun light your path, Prince Anduin.”

Father and son move away, leaving Tyri’el standing alone in the street, and he puts his hand to his neck and feels the small line of tender flesh where Dacian’s sword had just barely broken the skin. He had wanted to kill the human, who was much less at fault for all of this mess than he was, and remorse joins the poisonous cocktail of emotions festering inside him. Feeling sick to his stomach, he puts a hand to his forehead and begs Belore for the strength to weather this storm.

Someone says his name, and he takes a moment to realize it and look up. Aethas is beside him, disheveled from the fight and eyes sad from what followed. He seems hesitant to reach out, but does so anyway, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“What would you have me do?” Tyri’el asks, and seeing the younger elf’s confusion, he continues. “I will help shore up the city’s defenses, or look for the Scourge’s points of entry. Give me something to do.”

Aethas seems taken aback at his request, his copper eyebrows drawing together.

“I want you to take time for yourself. You—”

“I don’t need to take time. I need to be busy, to be of use.”

“Something like this is not mended overnight,” Aethas says, a soft insistence in his voice. Tyri’el begins to speak, but he quiets, knowing better than to argue this kind of loss with his friend.

“How long will it take?” He asks, and Aethas shakes his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t say.” A soft sigh escapes him, and his ears droop just the smallest bit. “Eight years now, and sometimes I can still swear she’s in the next room.”

Aethas squeezes his shoulder.

“The city will still be here when you return, Tyri’el. As will your friends.”

“I would rather stay. Be of some help,” Tyri’el says, hating himself for the bare pleading in his voice.

“I’ll make it an official order, if it will better convince you.” There’s no command in Aethas’s voice, no air of authority, and that somehow only makes it worse.

“When should I return?” Tyri’el asks, shoulders sagging in defeat, as weighed down by emotion as they are by exhaustion.

“When you feel it’s time.”

That’s all Aethas says before leaving to rejoin the rest of the Council of Six to begin organizing cleanup efforts. Tyri’el senses his mother nearby as he makes his way back to Sunreaver Sanctuary, but neither says anything to the other until they’re at the front door of his house. No one else is around, everyone preoccupied with tending to the wounded and burning the rotting remains of the Scourge forces, and Tyri’el finds himself blindly reaching out for Keldra. She’s there in an instant, arms around him and cradling his head against her chest as he weeps. She pets at his hair, rubbing slow circles between his shoulderblades, and helps ease him down onto the stoop when his legs give out beneath him.

“I could have saved her,” he repeats, over and over, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

“You did all you could, my sun,” Keldra says, holding him against her like she did when he was very small and would wake from nightmares and seek her out.

He could have done more, should have done more, but he didn’t, and Violet had to pay the price for it.

“Do not let this push you back into the darkness, sundrop. She would not want you to—”

“What do you know about what she would have wanted?” The weariness that had enveloped him like a thick, suffocating blanket evaporates and snaps violently back into anger. “What do you know about any of this?”

Keldra’s momentary shock turns cold, and her brow furrows.

“I am not your enemy in this, Tyri’el. And you know as well as I the things I have lost.”

Another jarring turn and he’s plunged back into sorrow. She may not have lost her husband, but his mother still grieves for her first love, for Kael’thas. Too, she carries the weight of her son’s death, and that of her brother’s wife and his children, and of many friends and colleagues. Loss, it seems, is an ever-present specter that haunts his family.

“Forgive me, mother,” Tyri’el says softly, hanging his head.

“It is forgiven, my sun,” Keldra replies, smoothing tear-soaked strands of hair away from his face. “I heard what Aethas said to you. Come to Shattrath with me. Perhaps A’dal’s presence will soothe your heart.”

Tyri’el nods, too tired to argue.

“I’ll join you there,” he says finally, something itching at the back of his mind. Keldra looks at him in question, and he shakes his head as he pushes off the stoop and rises to his feet. “I have some business to see to before I leave the city.”

His mother eyes him with some trepidation, but nods.

“Be quick with it. Senna will want to know you are well.”

“I will,” he assures her, kissing her cheek and watching as she leaves the front yard and travels towards the main square of the Sanctuary, more than one wary glance cast over her shoulder. He sighs, wanting just to close his eyes and wake up from this nightmare, and runs a hand through his hair before turning and entering his house. It’s empty and quiet inside, some articles of furniture a bit askew from the panicked rush to get Senna outside and onto Myral’s back so that she could get to the portal to Shattrath as quickly as possible - the girl has already survived one Scourge attack, and her grandmother had been eager to spare her another. Tyri’el pushes things back into place, moving up the stairs to the second floor, and then up into his bedroom.

Boots still on and clothes still covered in blood, he collapses onto the bed, pulling one of the pillows to him and burying his face into it. The cloth still smells like Violet, and the scent brings forth the memories of the last time he’d held her, just last night, and of every time before that. He squeezes his eyes shut and calls up every fleeting memory of her he can think of, if only to pretend like she’s not gone, not lost at the hands of a monster who will twist her and break her of everything that made her who she was.

He sees her smile, hears her laugh, recalls the way her breath would hitch when he kissed her just right. Every tear he’d seen her shed, every time she had cracked just the slightest bit to let him see the real woman behind the carefully-made mask. She had called him the sun, had feared looking at him too long, but Belore’s mercy, she had been his light without even trying. For whatever reason, she had loved him, and he had failed her.

Tyri’el finds he can’t breathe, the weight of his failure choking him as surely as any noose, and he rolls onto his back, pillow still clutched tight to his chest. He wants to scream, wants to thrash and break everything he can get his hands on, and he thinks that he never should have come to this damned city. If he had only listened to Violet, had just gone off to Kalimdor and ignored Aethas’s summons, none of this would have happened. They would have been far away from Dacian, from Arthas, and he wouldn’t be here, drowning in his own mistakes. Rage flares again, deep inside his chest, and he clenches his teeth, wanting nothing more than to raze this Light-forsaken city to the ground.

Anduin had been right, however. Violet wouldn’t have wanted him to hurt others, nor himself. She had taken great loss in stride, and had been all the stronger for it. At the very least, he owes her memory that much, to not let his pain rule him.

Tyri’el rolls onto his side, then sits up, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. His hands are still covered in her blood, as are his clothes, and he rises from the bed and moves into the bathroom to wash his hands. There’s blood in his hair, as well as ash and ichor from slain undead, and he runs the water in the bathtub and spends a token amount of time cleaning himself up. Again, he thinks of Violet, of the day they’d spent in Silvermoon when he had helped her wash her hair, and reaches out of the tub to retrieve her earring from his vest. He dips it into the water to clean away the blood and holds it up to the light. An entire rainbow of soft colors glitter across the surface of the gem, and he’s struck by the beauty of it, and then by the heavy realization that this is the last tangible thing he has to keep of Violet. He holds it against his chest, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself weep.

The water is cold by the time Tyri’el has no more energy left with which to shed tears, and he rises from the bathtub and dries himself off, moving to his armoire to find clean clothes. His fingers brush something as he searches one of the drawers, and he pauses, returning to the object with a renewed weight in his gut. It’s the letter Violet had sent him all those months ago, still unopened, having been shoved into the back of the drawer in the hopes that it could be forgotten. It had been, until now, and his hands tremble as he lifts it from the drawer and moves to sit on the bed. How foolish he had been, to think she had stopped loving him, and how foolish he had been to have left this unopened for so long.

The seal breaks with a sharp crack, and he pulls the folded piece of parchment out, staring at it and working up the courage to open it.

What if she had been angry with him when she had written it, had penned it in a fit of rage? Is it truly wise to risk that being the very last thing he hears from her?

Fingers still shaking, he unfolds the letter. It seems penned in a hurry, as if she had been afraid of being caught writing it. There’s no formal address to him, only a short message that he hears in her voice as he reads it.

_There’s too much to explain here. If you can find it in your heart to let me explain, wear something red when next you go out._  
_My messenger will take care of the rest._

_Please._

_—V_

 

Tyri’el’s stomach drops. Had he only opened it, he would have…

Would he have even wanted to meet with her? Could he have faced her then, knowing that she had left because he’d given her no alternative?

Even now, he can’t be certain.

He runs his fingers over the letters, tracing their shapes, and tries to imagine the way her hands might have moved as she wrote them. She had a grace about her, almost ethereal in nature, even in the smallest of things. Lacing her boots, brushing her hair from her face…all of it was so ordinary and yet so mesmerizing, like the careful, practiced steps of a dancer - and yet, it was effortless. Simply by existing, she had been the most beautiful thing he had ever known.

Tears smudge the ink, and Tyri’el holds the letter away from him, not wanting to ruin this very last piece of evidence he has to prove to himself that Violet had still loved him. He folds it and replaces it inside its envelope with great care, rising after a moment to stow it safely away inside his armoire once more, and throws on his clothes. He likely looks a mess, and he can’t find it in him to care, instead reaching up to unclasp Al’ar’s vial from around his neck. Violet’s earring joins the pendant, slipped onto the chain through one of its loops, and he refastens it around his neck. It will be close to his heart, this piece of her that she left behind. It weighs heavy against his skin, but is a comfort nonetheless.

Several apprentices, young members of his race, nod solemnly to him as he approaches the portals at the center of the Sanctuary. The anchors will need to be repaired and re-enchanted, something he would gladly help with, but he’s finding himself further and further into a numb sort of disconnection with every step he takes. He barely feels the magic of the portal, nor the calm, serene air about Shattrath as he emerges into the draenei city. The soft hum of the naaru at the city’s center calms some of the free-floating restlessness about him, but at his core, there is nothing but the raw, searing hurt that makes it hard to pull in more than a shallow breath.

People call out to him in greeting as he makes his way through the Scryer’s tier towards his mother’s home, but he says nothing to them and does nothing to acknowledge that he’s even heard them. His mind is buzzing, the little demons that had plagued him for so long crawling out from their holes to whisper and chitter in his ear.

_Failure_ , they say. _Weak. Worthless._

His mother hugs him when he enters the house, telling him that his room is made up, and then lets him be. He goes upstairs and sits on the bed in his room, trying not to remember waking up here with Violet curled up at his side, nor the other nights they’d spent in this house, back when they had only each other and the world seemed to be giving them something good for once.

“Uncle T?”

The mattress dips beside him, and he feels a small hand curl around his own. He blinks, eyes readjusting from where they had gone unfocused as he stared blankly at the wall, and looks down. Senna frowns just a little, tiny creases forming between her eyebrows, and Tyri’el is struck by how much she resembles her father in that expression. Ralen had the same look about him often in regards to his little brother, whether he had found Tyri’el somewhere on the fringes of their estate, waist deep in a mud puddle, or when he had found him hiding under his desk, trying not to cry when Soven had yelled at him for something inconsequential. Like his father, Ralen was a man of few words, but his care for his brother had far outspoken anything he didn’t say.

“Grandmother told me what happened,” Senna says quietly, tears in the corners of her eyes already. “Are you going to get sick again? Because you’re sad?”

“No,” Tyri’el says, wiping at his eyes. “I’m not going to get sick like that ever again.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Senna sniffs, using her free hand to wipe at her own eyes, but keeping the other hand around his. “You really liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I did, too.” She looks over at the window, then rises and moves over to it, drawing back the curtains. It’s mid-morning in Outland, and she points to one of the suns, looking back over her shoulder at her uncle. “Grandmother says that when we die, our souls go up to Belore, and then we can look down on the people we love forever.”

Senna comes back to the bed and takes Tyri’el’s hand, pulling him up and over to the window.

“Violet is up there now, Uncle T, with ann’da and minn’da. So she’ll always be with you, just like they’re always with me.”

Tyri’el smiles despite himself, warmed by the thought, until he realizes that Violet’s soul is not with Belore, nor with the Light. It’s trapped in a cursed blade, alongside so many other souls stolen before their time. He feels cold from his core, imagining the agony her spirit must be enduring in that eternal prison. Perhaps not for long, should the Lich King choose to reanimate her with her sentience intact, but even a brief moment inside Frostmourne is surely equal to lifetimes of torture.

Keldra calls from somewhere down the hall, and Senna sighs.

“Will you be all right?” She looks up at him, eyes flicking to the door. “I’ll tell grandmother I want to stay if you want me to.”

“I’ll be all right,” Tyri’el replies, unsurprised at how easily the lie comes. To her credit, Senna looks skeptical, but gives a short nod before wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I love you, Uncle T.”

“I love you, too. Now go, before your grandmother gets upset.”

He’s alone again then, and he turns back to look out the window. He wonders if what Senna said is true, if the souls of his people really do make their way to Belore, and if the souls of humans go back to the Light. Faith has never come easily to him - he prefers to believe in things he can see and feel and touch - but part of him wants to think it might be true. That Ralen is up there somewhere, with his wife, and that their aunt and cousins are watching over their uncle. Maybe even his father, whose soul was still his, even if his body and mind no longer were.

In the end, bitter cynicism wins out, and he pulls the curtains shut, plunging the room back into darkness. None of them are up there, least of all Violet, and he’s alone again.

The house is quiet when Tyri’el comes down onto the first floor, and he finds his way outside and into the back garden. It’s quiet here, with only birdsong and the gentle gurgle of the small fountain, and he seats himself on the bench and leans his head back. The sun is bright and it’s warm and calm, but he feels none of it. It’s as if he’s left his body, only existing on reflex rather than because he really wants to. Everything seems so far away, so distant, like he’s inside a very small universe that only exists from the soles of his feet to the tips of his ears. Even sounds are muted, and he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps until the metal of the bench beneath him creaks with added weight.

Tyri’el opens his eyes, having not even noticed that they had slipped closed, and finds the other half of the bench occupied by Soven. He instantly goes rigid, conditioned by centuries of caustic words and a dismissive demeanor, but the man he had once thought his father says nothing at first, only looks at him with what looks alarmingly like sympathy.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Soven says finally, and it sounds strikingly genuine, something that hits Tyri’el like a backhand across his face. Soven wets his lips, shifting his weight almost uncomfortably, and continues. “I know you cared greatly for the girl.”

“I did,” Tyri’el replies, unsure of what to do with the other elf’s words.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you like,” he says, shifting again. “And any time after that. You…visit too infrequently.”

“Did mother put you up to this?” Tyri’el asks, a bit of venom in his voice. Aggression and apathy he can handle, but this false care…it seems like an insult coming from the man.

“No,” Soven says, finally meeting Tyri’el’s eyes. “These are my words, and I mean them.”

Stunned into silence, Tyri’el can only blink back at the man he had called father for so long.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, caught between anger and disbelief. Seven hundred years of nothing but harsh, unloving treatment, and now he thinks to offer something, like a starved, beaten dog given nothing but scraps until it’s about to die? “Is this supposed to make up for everything you’ve done?”

“No.” Soven crosses his arms over his chest, then uncrosses them, and he lets out a short breath like he’s frustrated, but for once, it doesn’t seem directed at Tyri’el. “I fear that nothing can make up for what I’ve done to you, but…I would like to try.”

Tyri’el stands, ready to remove himself from whatever this is supposed to be, but stops when the very smallest of sounds catches his ear. He turns, looking back, and sees Soven trying to hold back tears. The sight freezes him in place as easily as if he’d been frozen in a block of ice. He’s only ever seen the man come to tears once in his life, and that was upon learning of the death of his only true son, news that Tyri’el himself had delivered after being pulled, nearly dead, from the fountain in the Court of the Sun. The man who was only ever a slab of stone, an unfeeling ruler, is now little more than someone desperately trying to hold himself together.

“I have had much time to think since last you were here,” Soven says, and for some reason he doesn’t quite understand, Tyri’el finds himself sitting back down, transfixed by the sight before him. Soven doesn’t meet his eyes directly, but at the very least, he looks over at him with a small turn of his head. “I have seen the quality of man you have become, and I know that I did nothing to aid in that.”

The older elf leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and digs into the grass below them with the heel of his boot.

“In the wake of your mother’s confession, when she told me you were not my son, I fell into my anger. I let it rule me.” His hands clench into white-knuckled fists. “You were innocent of your mother’s infidelity, Tyri’el, in no way at fault for the circumstances that led to your birth. And I…”

Soven closes his eyes.

“I took that anger out on you.” He opens his eyes, looking over at Tyri’el. “You were just a child, and you thought me your father. I was supposed to be the one who taught you everything you needed to know, who loved you and reveled in your triumphs.”

Tyri’el can only gape at him, wholly unprepared for an admission of this magnitude. He’d thought all of these things numerous times, both before and after he’d been told the truth about his heritage, but to hear them from the man himself is disarming, to say the least.

“I _failed_ you, Tyri’el. Blood or no, you are my son, and to ask your forgiveness is more than I deserve.” Soven straightens up and reaches out to him, but seems to think better of it, drawing his hand back instead. “I will not ask you for it now, but in time, perhaps I will earn it.”

“How?” Tyri’el means to ask more, like how he could possibly think to make amends for a lifetime of neglect, for the hundreds of years he spent trying and failing to please the only person whose approval he sought above all and never felt, but the one word is all he can manage. It’s too much, and he feels himself slipping further away from reality, but Soven puts his hand lightly on his wrist. Not a slap as punishment, nor a firm grip to pull him roughly to him, but the sort of tender gesture a father is supposed to share with his son.

“I cannot begin to know. But…I want to try.” Soven pauses, looking as unsure as Tyri’el has ever seen him. “I want to make up for the time I spent neglecting you.”

“I don’t know if you can,” Tyri’el admits, and Soven nods, seeming to deflate. “I can’t just forgive you because you ask it of me.”

“I know. But I will do everything in my power to show you that I mean what I say.” He lets go of Tyri’el’s wrist and looks him over with sorrow-filled eyes. “I am so very proud of you, my son.”

Whatever shaky resolve Tyri’el has held onto up until this point breaks like a thin layer of ice, and he once again begins to weep. The one thing he’d waited his whole life to hear, what he’d tried to desperately to elicit in everything he did from his first memories to the very last breaths before he left Silvermoon for good, and it comes without warning on one of the worst days of his life. He feels arms around him and thinks his mother has come outside, but he opens his eyes and finds that it’s Soven who holds him so gently, and he senses the small child always inside of him find comfort in the embrace.

“I am so sorry, Tyri’el,” Soven says softly. “I leave for Nagrand in two day’s time. I want you to come with me.”

“What for?” Tyri’el asks, hiccuping partway through his question. He feels like a very young child again, lost and alone in a world that doesn’t want him, but there is some comfort in the warm weight beside him, in the smell of leather and fletching feathers that has always belonged to Soven in his memory.

“To begin making up for lost time.” Soven looks down at him. “Can you agree to that? To let me begin to be the father I never was?”

“I…” Tyri’el begins, still uncertain as to whether or not this is real. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but he is so very tired, and the promise is enough for now, however true it is in the end. “I can agree to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk, guys. I've been having a really hard time staying motivated. I've had a pretty stressful change in my living situation, along with some other heavy stuff going on, and I've just not felt like writing as much as I used to. I know I promised to update more often, but for the foreseeable future, it will probably be slow while I get my shit together. I'm sorry, and I'm going to do my best, but just be patient with me. I love each and every one of you, whether you comment or just read when I post, so know that I'm doing the very best I can for you guys <3


	5. A Light In The Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, "How Many Times Can I Say 'Darkness' or 'Shadow' In One Freakin' Chapter". At least 39 times, apparently.
> 
> This one's a bit shorter, but it didn't really fit in with the next one, so here you go!

_Time passes._

_Minutes or hours? Days?_

_No way to tell._

Darkness is the only constant, surrounding and swallowing Violet like she’s sinking endlessly into deep, frigid water. There’s a weight on her chest, at once like a heavy stone pushing her deeper and a gripping hand keeping her from plunging too quickly. There’s a presence with her, invisible but tangible enough that she knows she is not alone in the endless black, and though she knows she should be frightened, she feels no fear. In fact, she feels nothing - she is empty inside, scraped clean of all feeling, and there exists within her a sort of quiet sereneness, like the hushed calm of a winter’s night when the falling snow swallows all sound. Closing her eyes, she lets herself sink, finally at peace.

A voice comes to her through the murk, soft and ringed with crystalline tones, though the words are too muffled for her to understand. It fades as soon as it comes, leaving her with a fleeting moment of warmth in her chest.

Violet startles into awareness, her actions sluggish and hazy, and realizes that she’s landed on some solid surface that’s hard and cold against her back. Pushing herself upright, her hands come away tacky, and she looks down to find them covered in blood. She flexes her fingers, numb but knowing that this should shock her, and brushes the dark liquid off on what remains of her wedding dress. Something catches her peripheral vision, a brief shape darker than the black all around her, and she turns in time to see it meld back into the shadows.

It’s then that the screaming starts. It begins with one voice, then joined by another, and another, until a deafening cacophony rises all around her, thousands of voices crying out in agony. They die out into strangled silence, and Violet feels that it was a mourning cry, welcoming her into this place of great darkness. Hands reach out from the shadows, clawing at the fabric of her dress and pulling at her hair. They are hungry, starved from being imprisoned so long, and she finds herself overwhelmed and assailed by devouring mouths that latch greedily onto her skin.

A light comes from above, revealing grotesque and inhuman shapes all around her, and then a strong pair of arms is lifting her from the ground. Sound moves strangely here, but the cries of the hungering creatures meet her ears as they’re driven away and back into the darkness by subdued but still-bright flashes of golden light.

“On your feet, lass. I won’t let them hurt you again.”

The timbre of the man’s voice stirs something inside of Violet, the smallest of memories clawing its way out from beneath the haze in her mind. She looks up at the profile illuminated by the light he grasps in one hand like a lantern, seeing familiar stern features in the man who watches the darkness around them.

“Uther?” Her voice is muffled and weak, but he hears her, turning his head to look down at her with widening eyes that glance over her locket and immediately turn sad with recognition.

“Light, girl. Not you.” The old paladin is every bit the same as she remembers, from the streaks of gray in his beard to the immaculate sheen of his armor. He looks perhaps more tired now, as if he hasn’t slept in some time, and she can’t help but wrap her arms around him in a desperate hug. He returns the embrace with one arm, the other still held aloft to keep the darkness at bay. “Light damn him.”

“Where am I?” Violet asks, lifting her head to look around. Shapes still move around them, but they stay at the edge of the light like hungry forest beasts circling a warding campfire.

“In hell, as it were,” he replies, studying her face, and then looks down at her ruined dress. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“I was…” She follows his gaze, seeing the massive, purpling wound carved between her breasts. Another memory claws its way to her, of a towering figure and a flash of cold metal, of the heat of anger and the chill of the air. “I was…impulsive. I didn’t think before I…”

“Easy, lass. Hold yourself steady.” Uther keeps her upright as she sways, steadying her when the full weight of realization hits her.

“I’m dead.” Their surroundings begin to shift around them, and a chorus of dark laughter echoes around them, as if the wraiths in the dark take joy in her revelation. “I’m…inside Frostmourne.”

“I’m so sorry, Violet. Of all the souls he might have stolen, I never dreamed he would take you.” The light in his hand flickers, and one of the shadow-beasts leaps out towards them, rebuffed by a bright globe that springs up around them. Violet opens her eyes from her flinch, seeing that the gentle stream of light that the creature throws itself against is coming from her own fingertips, not Uther’s.

“What…” She begins, words lost to wonder. The burning warmth of the Light fills her, starting in her chest and flowing like a river out into every part of her body. If she could feel enough to cry, she would be weeping, but the welcoming caress of the connection so long since lost is the only thing she knows in this moment. “I thought you had forsaken me.”

As if in response, the Light around her flares brighter, and the shadow-beasts recoil with violent hisses and screeches. Violet begins to walk with slow, careful steps, calling in more and more light to banish the darkness, driving it away like the the dawn chasing away the last fringes of night. A gentle weight comes on her shoulder, and she looks back to see Uther watching her with pride, but his expression is still tinged with sadness.

“The Light never left your soul, girl. It was only your body that forgot where to find it.”

Violet almost smiles, some of the fog already clearing from her mind, but the joy is gone and quickly replaced by a sobering reality.

“What good is it in here?” She asks, leaving the barrier up around them but severing her connection to it so she can look down at her hands, still covered in blood, and then at her wound. “If the Light could help us escape, you would have done so years ago.”

“There is no escape, Light-willing or not.” Uther stares out into the darkness. “The only way our souls can be free is if the cursed blade is broken.”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them to look at her.

“Do you remember your oath?”

Violet nods, the whole of the pledge coming back to her unhindered. One line strikes meaning, and she feels the Light surge inside her in affirmation.

“I will be a shepherd for the lost. A shield in battle and a light in the darkness.”

Something like a smile curves at the edges of the paladin’s lips, and he nods.

“Even in death, we belong to the Light. Even in this place. We must protect and guide those who are taken.”

The shadows around them shift almost uneasily, and Violet begins to feel as if they’re being watched. Shapes move again at the edges of her vision, sometimes limbs and sometimes flashes of faces, all of them seemingly humanoid but still altogether inhuman.

“What are they?” She asks, stepping up to the very edge of her barrier to get a closer look. She’s met with a gnash of sharp teeth and takes a step back, though she knows that the creatures can’t reach her.

“Souls.” Uther comes to stand beside her. “Human, elven, dwarven…whatever they once were, they’ve long since forgotten they were ever alive.”

Violet reaches out, putting her palm flat against the glass-like firmness of the barrier, and from somewhere out in the darkness, a hand reaches out to press back. It’s small, the shadowy skin warped and aged with decay, and for the briefest moment, Violet hears the cries of a young child as if from very far away.

“Is there any way to save them?” She asks quietly as the tiny hand slips away and returns to the darkness once more. “A way to make them remember?”

“None that I’ve found,” Uther replies, unusually dejected, and lets out a low grunt of frustration. “Once the madness takes them, they become tools of the evil that rules this place.”

“Arthas,” Violet says under her breath, her open palm curling into a fist that slams against the barrier. “Damn him.”

“He serves his punishment. His soul was the first stolen by Frostmourne.”

“He’s…here?” Violet looks first to Uther, then back out past the barrier.

“Somewhere out there,” the older human says, nodding to the blackness beyond. “I heard his cries when I first arrived, and though I’ve tried many times, I cannot find my way to him. His father has had no better luck, though he still hears him.”

“King Terenas…” Violet recalls a monument of white stone, in a city much darker than it had been, and the kind, wizened face that she had known so long ago.

“He, too, guides the lost through this hell. Our paths will cross again, Light-willing, but the dark magics here seem to work against us at every turn.”

“He’s here,” Violet says again, more to herself, and the sound of her words is all but swallowed up in the unnatural hush pressing in. Then, louder, “Arthas’s soul…there’s some part of him that yet remains?”

Uther nods, just the slightest tilt of his head telling her that he doesn’t like her question.

“Without some part of the boy’s soul left to subjugate, the demon that rules him would need to find a new host.”

A feeling starts in Violet’s chest, like the gentle thrum of her heart beating, and the Light inside only flares brighter. That same soft voice comes again, the one that had caressed her as she’d fallen, but the words are clearer now. They tell her what she must do, who she must find.

“I can free us,” she says, first as a realization, then again as a war cry. “I can free us if I can find him.”

Calling the Light into her hands, Violet lets the barrier fall, and the shadow beasts surge forward only to be rent apart when she does not falter at their advance. The darkness shrinks back, parting before her like doors thrust open. She grins, and for the first time since arriving here, she feels something - she feels _hope_.

“You cannot go out there alone, girl,” Uther says, one hand wrapped around her bicep in an impossibly strong grip that halts her steps and keeps her from moving. “Not to chase after whatever is left of him. You may never find it, and if you were to succumb to the darkness…”

Little pinpricks of reflected light catch on the tears at the corners of his eyes, marring the wrinkles there that were earned with a lifetime of both concern and mirth. It’s an expression that has no explanation, nothing that Violet can tie to a reason. He looks down at her, at the woman she’s become since last they were together, and his voice shakes when he speaks again.

“I failed your family once before, Violet. Your mother, your father…” His grip tightens. “I cannot let you risk your very soul to right the atrocities that I could not stop. That I _should_ have stopped.”

The paladin’s voice breaks, and Violet’s hands fall to her sides. She senses something unspoken from her old teacher, a regret that goes deeper than the words he uses, and she sees it in his eyes.

“Do not go out there.”

Violet pauses, weighing his warning, and steps up to wrap her arms around him again. He seems to relax, some of the tension leaving him, and returns the embrace with both arms.

“We will meet again,” Violet murmurs, stepping back from him and calling the Light to her. She spares no last glance at him and he shouts after her, trying to reach for her, but she is already gone. The darkness parts for her, though if it’s shrinking away from her Light or moving by the ministrations of some other force, she can’t be sure. Her mother’s locket is warm against her chest, and she feels a tug there, like a gentle beckoning that guides her feet. Everything looks the same, even after what feels like hours pass, and though the darkness gives no indication of changing, she knows she is moving closer to where she needs to go.

Blacker than black, a shape emerges, looming in the dark before her. Violet holds her hands aloft, looking for any bit of clarity she can manage in what she sees, and small details become clear - clear enough that her steps quicken, and before long, she’s running. It’s the royal palace of Lordaeron, the castle at the center of Capital City, and she passes the front gates and finds that the doors leading to the corridor before to the throne room are already open. A soft sound meets her ears, quiet beneath the hammering of her footfalls, and she comes to a halt, listening.

Someone is weeping.

The quiet breaths are unmistakable, and the clinking of metal accompanies them every so often. They only grow louder as she approaches, walking the familiar halls as she had so many times before. Stone made of dark, dripping shadow parts into the final doorway, and Violet finally lays eyes on the source of the sounds of agony.

There, shackled with dark chains to the throne he was born to occupy, sits Arthas.

Where she might have once felt unbridled rage, the desire to kill and avenge, Violet now only feels pity. This is not the prince she remembers, nor the monster she had so foolishly faced down in the last moments of her life. The man before her is feeble and weak, his limbs emaciated and his face gaunt, and though he still wears the armor of a paladin, he could now be no protector, nor a healer. His thin shoulders shake with wracking sobs, golden hair falling to cover his eyes, and as Violet moves towards him, he makes no indication that he know she’s here. The Light at her fingertips stretches out, seeking to fill the darkness around him, and she again feels the tug in her chest, this time more insistent.

“Arthas?” She says it softly, voice like she’s speaking to a frightened child, and she sees him flinch in response. It seems to tax him greatly just to lift his head a few inches, and the chains that bind his limbs and body creak and groan as if tightening against his skin. Behind the strands of hair that fall across his face, his seaglass eyes are milky and distant, straining to focus on her face.

“Forgive me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Another sob chokes him, and he cries out in pain, golden brows drawing together. Violet steps closer, seeing how the darkness here moves with eerie intelligence, like the slithering of snakes or the tentacles of some deepsea beast. It does not reach out for her, instead slinking back just enough to allow her to set foot on the first step of the dais that holds the throne. Her Light reaches out further, tendrils of golden smoke moving to seep into the pallid flesh of the man who had once held so much divine favor. This seems to ease some of his pain, and he breathes a small sigh of relief. He finds his voice again, and repeats his plea. “Forgive…me.”

“I can’t,” Violet says, moving up to the second step. She feels eyes on her, and movement at her back, but she does not fear it - she knows the Light inside her will keep her safe - and turns her attention back to the shell of a man before her. “But I will help you break free from these chains.”

“He is…too strong…” Arthas says, managing to shake his head. “And I…I am too weak.”

His eyes meet hers, and something in his face changes. They’d known each other long ago, when she was much younger and he was not yet a slave to death itself, but it’s as if he’s seeing her now for the first time.

“I am…so sorry, Violet.” Pale eyes find the locket around her neck, and a soft sob escapes him. “This is all my fault. Your death is…is my doing.”

“You chose to become that…thing. _Every_ life stolen is blood on your hands.” A harder emotion overcomes her, not quite the burning flames of rage, but a softer kind of anger that is laced with sorrow.

“Yes.” A shallow nod. “Everything he’s done is because I…gave in to my anger, my weaknesses. He knew…I would.”

“Who?” Violet asks, knowing whoever it is controls the shadows around them and the shackles binding him to the throne.

“His name is…Ner’zhul. He is…the Lich King.”

“You are the Lich King.” Violet shakes her head, more memories returning to her from somewhere outside this place. “It was you who struck me down. I saw _you_.”

“He wears my face. Uses…my body like…a puppet. I see…all he does through my…own eyes…but I can’t stop him.”

Speaking seems to pain Arthas, and his body spasms beneath the chains. Violet takes the third step up, and then the fourth, settling onto her knees before placing her hands over his. She still remembers how to heal, how to guide the Light into flesh and bone, and tries to fill him with as much as she can. There is no give to the chains, but she can feel some of Arthas’s strength returning, and watches as he closes his eyes and gives in to the warmth he’s been without for so long.

“After all I’ve done,” he says, opening his eyes after a moment. They are clearer now, once again like deep pools of southern water, and even his voice is stronger, though still fatigued. “After what I let him do to you, you still…you still want to help me?”

“You’re the only one that can stop him,” Violet replies, catching a shadow in her peripheral vision, but it’s gone when she turns to look. She looks back to Arthas, seeing that he’s shaking his head.

“I can’t. Not from in here. There is too little left of me…only enough for brief moments of clarity.” His eyes trace her face, expression unreadable, before they once again settle on her locket. “I tried to stop him, but…I was too late. He…he felt it when I saw the… he felt me…”

He trails off as if unable to bring himself to finish that thought.

“He would have spared you had I not…wanted so badly to…touch it again. To hold some…part of…her again…” Fresh tears stain Arthas’s cheeks, and, as if responding to his agony, something moves in the shadows cast by the throne. It appears to be unafraid of the Light, coming right up to the edge of the glow, but goes no further, as if waiting for something. Arthas seems unaware of it as he speaks again, brittle wheezing interrupting his words. “I thought of her every…every day. And…of you.”

Arthas strains against the chains biting into the flesh of his wrists, enough so that they groan and draw blood, and he manages to lift his hand enough to barely brush the engraved surface of the pendant around her neck. Violet immediately reaches up to cover it, leaning back and away from him. Her Light flickers and the connection severs, dimming the space around them for just a moment before she summons more to keep them both illuminated in the dark.

“I should…have seen it,” Arthas says, letting his hand fall back against the arm of the throne. “I should have…seen her in your…face.”

Leaning his head back against the the stone behind him, he lets out a pained sigh, his strength seeming to leave him all at once. Violet can only blink back at him, unable to understand what he means. He seems coherent enough still, but his words make no sense. After a pause, he raises his voice, still weak but ringing out clearer as if he’s calling to someone far beyond them.

“I cannot keep my promise to you, Eliana. I cannot keep our daughter safe.” Eyes unfocused for a moment, Arthas seems to search the space around him before his gaze settles back on her. His voice is no more than a whisper, but Violet hears him all the same. “I cannot keep you safe.”

The sincerity in his voice hits Violet square in the gut, and a much more desperate tug comes from her chest. She looks down, seeing a faint light glimmer off the surface of her locket - no, coming from within it - and realization settles over her like a cold, suffocating shroud.

“No,” she says, backing away from the bound prince. Her eyes meet his, the very same color she’s seen in the mirror every day of her life, and though she has no solid form, she feels her knees begin to shake. Desperate to flee, she scrambles to her feet, but she finds she can’t move. Shouting now, she struggles against whatever force is overcoming her. "You are not my fa—”

A clawed hand comes over her mouth, choking her words, and dozens of rotting arms reach out from the darkness, binding her firmly in place. The shadow behind the throne begins to move again, stepping fully into the glow of the light and snuffing it out to little more than a pathetic flicker that only allows the barest hints of vision. It morphs and takes form, of an orc with his tusked face covered in white paint that forms a ghastly impression of a skull against brown skin. He grins, blue fire in his eyes, and looks at Violet like a predator appraising his prey. He then looks to Arthas, who has gone pale with eyes full of fear.

“Don’t hurt her, I beg of you.”

Arthas reaches out, straining so hard against his chains that his bones shatter and twist, but still he tries to grasp at her.

Something is pulling her away, some great force that she is utterly powerless against, and the once-clear imitation of the throne room begins to fade away. Everything shifts and blurs, and she feels her feet lifting off the ground, a scream caught in her throat and echoing in her head.

Weak fingers close around hers, the cold skin the most solid thing she’s felt since arriving here, and though his strength is failing, Arthas manages to choke out a few breaths through screams of agony.

“You must fight him. You--”

All light fades, and a soul-deep cold envelops Violet as she’s pulled away. The last touch of his fingertips fades, and his voice carries through the black after her.

“You must not forget the Light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoomp, there it is! Congrats to everyone who guessed who Violet's father is way back when - y'all are way too damn smart to be reading my stuff! <3


	6. Death Becomes Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, thoughts communicated telepathically/necromantically/whatever-ically will be in **_bold italics_ **.
> 
> Faedrine is my DK Horde-side. (Violet is obvs my Ally DK).

Stagnant air parts, ripping through the darkness and accompanying silence to form a doorway, and the atmosphere of the chamber shifts. A hush descends, like all sound has rushed out for fear of the evil approaching, and all is quiet until a looming form steps through the portal. A few drops of darkened blood fall to the stone floor, dripping from a trivial wound, the small spatters catching the attention of the chamber’s occupants. The pack of geists bound up to their master like loyal hounds, one-eyed heads low to the ground in reverence.

“Master, you are injured,” one of them says, voice grating like a harsh wind through dead grass. “Allow us to summon a—”

“Away, mongrel!” The Lich King kicks the geist, sending it flying back with a yelp of surprise. He looks at the others, and they shrink back in fear. “Away, all of you.”

“As the master wishes.”

The geists retreat from the room, the last of them pulling the great metal door shut behind them, and the Lich King stands alone in the chamber. Scourgeflame springs to life in the sconces along the walls, almost animating the grotesque architecture of screaming skulls that adorn the floor and ceiling. An altar sits atop a dais in the very center of the room, empty now save for a thin layer of dust. The Lich King moves to stand before it, and a flash of light illuminates the chamber, darkness abating for a moment before a winged woman appears. Her bare feet touch the cold floor, spectral wings folding behind her, and she sets down the limp body she had been cradling against her chest.

“You have done well, Annhylde,” the Lich King says, looking over the corpse. “See that the surgeon has everything she needs. This one must be mended.”

The val’kyr only nods, looking over the young woman’s still form one last time before taking flight and ascending into the darkness above and out of sight. The Lich King watches her go, then looks down at the young woman before him, her skin ashen and her body lifeless.

“You are foolish, as was your father before you.” Beneath his helm, the Lich King sneers. “He begged me to spare you, but I have seen what you will become.”

He grips the woman’s chin, turning her face towards him, and stares into her unseeing eyes. Dark streaks of makeup trail down her cheeks, smeared by shed tears and the sweat of battle, and his eyes follow them down her chin and the curve of her neck to the locket resting atop her chest. Even in the low, unholy light of this place, the metal still gleams with a golden sheen, the surface untouched by the blood marring the wound carved through her only minutes before. The Lich King reaches out with gloved fingers to touch the locket, and he immediately recoils, an angry snarl escaping him. The leather of his glove is singed as if licked by an open flame, smoking for a moment with shimmers of golden light dissolving around the charred edges of the burn mark. His growl of anger turns to into a short, dark laugh, and he shakes his head.

“Your Light cannot save her, priestess, as his could not.”

One hand coming to rest on the woman’s forehead and the other splaying wide over her chest, the Lich King closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. Frostmourne springs to life at his side, its runes flaring eagerly, and a coil of silvery mist rises from it like smoke. The cloud slinks up towards her face, drawn by some invisible force, and rests over her nose and mouth as if waiting for a command not yet given. Dark, unholy power coalesces at the Lich King’s fingertips, burrowing deep into the flesh beneath his hands.

“You will be my weapon, the instrument of my will,” he says, voice straining the slightest bit. “The world will come to fear you as it fears me.”

The mist forces its way past her lips and enters the woman’s body like she’d breathed it in, and the room goes utterly still.

The Lich King opens his eyes and removes his hands.

“Rise, my daughter.”

Violet drags in a forced breath, her body seizing and her back arching up off the altar. Her hands grip the sides of the stone slab, cracks forming beneath her fingers, and violent, wracking coughs overtake her before they die out into a wailing scream. The sound comes from deep within her, the keening of her voice rising to heights that would surely rival the cry of a banshee - a cry born of the agony of a stolen soul being bound back into a body that has already died.

_**Silence.** _

A crushing weight comes around Violet’s throat like a hand, choking off all sound, and her eyes snap open. For the briefest of moments, they are still as clear and pure as southern waters, but then they are smothered out by the cold blue of lichfire. She can only stare at the ceiling, at the darkness all around her, and she feels…nothing.

_**Rise.** _

The command comes as a booming voice in her head, and her body moves. She sits up, every flexing of her muscles utterly foreign to her, and turns her head to look at the one who had spoken to the deepest parts of her being. He is both a stranger and a familiar presence, and she looks up at him with no fear or hatred, only reverence. This is her master, the one who made her and remade her, and she is his.

Her father’s will moves through her, and she stands from the altar, bare feet touching the stone but not feeling the cold against her skin. She stands perfectly still before him, no longer needing to draw breath, and waits for his command. The Lich King appraises her silently, finally reaching forward to grab her chin.

“To whom do you belong?” He asks, and Violet’s lungs draw in breath to allow her to speak.

“To you, my master.” Her voice is flat, now ringed with a haunting metallic edge, and every word is absolutely void of emotion. No steam rises from her lips despite the biting cold of the chamber - her body is lifeless, no longer warm and supple as it had been. She looks up at her father, seeing the man beneath the helm, and the briefest flash of memory overcomes her, telling her he was not always this way, so cold and full of rage. The thought confuses her, coming from so far away and seeming so foreign, despite knowing that it’s somehow her own memory, and she blinks, a tiny crease forming between her brows.

Something dark overcomes her and her mind is wiped clean, the memory plucked away like a thorn pulled from torn flesh. In its place is the looming presence of her father, overshadowing any other thoughts, and she knows in every fiber of her being that he is all she has, and all she needs.

“You were made to serve me,” the Lich King says, towering over her. “My will is your lifeblood.”

He waits for a reply, and she feels the expectation from him as if he’d simply asked her for a response. She feels many things from him, like the thoughts and emotions themselves are reaching out to touch something inside her. There is the overwhelming darkness of his presence, reaching long over her like a shadow, but there are also smaller things she can feel from him - the anticipation of an answer, a trivial amount of curiosity, and the smallest bit of apprehension, though it’s masked and gone as soon as she picks up on it. Somewhere within the expanse of darkness that belongs to him and is him, she feels a moment of grief, hot and poignant like the prick of a knifepoint, and then it, too, is gone. A low sound of anger comes from her father, and she looks up into his eyes, speaking the truth that resounds through her like a favored prayer.

“I am your weapon, my king. I exist only to serve you.”

Violet feels his satisfaction at her words, and he releases his hold on her chin, stepping back to look her over once again. Again, she feels there is curiosity from him, but it seems a broader type than it had been before. Behind him, the door to the chamber opens, and a geist peers into the room.

“Take her to the Seamstress,” the Lich King says to the creature, which nods and beckons to her. She raises an eyebrow at it, looking back to her father, who waves his hand in dismissal. “Leave me.”

“As you command, father,” Violet replies, bowing her head in deference before moving towards the door. Each stride of her legs is driven by something deep inside her, a power she can feel coursing through her whole body. She is stronger now than she ever has been, and she tries to recall whatever she was before this, only calling up the smell of blood and steel before the whole of the thought is taken from her and replaced with an endless expanse of black in her memory. She is her father’s servant, all else that came before is inconsequential.

Even as she follows the geist from the room, she can feel the Lich King’s presence in the back of her mind, tracking her movements and listening to her thoughts. Her mind is surprisingly empty now, existing in a state of calm and mild curiosity, but she does not question what she sees as she follows the loping creature down the winding hallway built of pale stone. All she sees and hears, be it the architecture or the sounds of others coming from somewhere beyond the hall she walks, is as her father wills, made for him and of him, as she is.

The geist stops at a large door, bowing low as its clawed hands open it for her. She offers the creature little more than a nod, pushing past it and stepping into the room beyond. The stench of undeath clings to the space, and though it assaults her senses, she does not recoil from it. Her sense of smell is as sharp as ever - perhaps even more so - but the scent has no effect on her, seeming as normal and inconsequential as any other.

“Welcome, my lady,” a female voice says from somewhere inside the room, and Violet pauses, scanning the space for movement. The chamber is relatively small, looking like a physician’s office with a large table in the center and shelves upon shelves of surgical implements lining the walls. There’s blood all over the floor, and a lithe figure steps out from behind a screen and over a pile of severed limbs to move towards her. “Do forgive the mess.”

It’s a high elf - or rather, what used to be one - sauntering towards her while smoothing at her blood-stained smock. She is pale and beautiful like a porcelain doll, with long, glacier-blue hair pulled up into an elegant ponytail. She stops a few feet away from Violet and bows at the waist, straightening up to appraise her with keen lichfire eyes.

“I am Faedrine, but most here call me the Seamstress. I repair other death knights who are foolish enough to get themselves injured.” She pauses, looking over the human and her dirty, disheveled state, and the corners of her dark lips turn down. “That is not, of course, to imply that you have been foolish.”

Violet begins to speak, to reciprocate the introduction, but the elf only smirks and shakes her head.

“I know who you are, daughter of Arthas. The master has made you known to all of the Scourge, and we are to serve you as we do him.” She gestures behind her. “Come, let me mend your wound.”

Violet follows the elf, careful to avoid the body parts scattered haphazardly in her path, and sits on the long table on the other side of the screen. It, too, is caked in blood, but she feels no disgust as she sits on it and watches as the other death knight picks up a pair of rusted scissors from a nearby cabinet.

“Beautiful dress,” Faedrine murmurs, running trained fingertips over the intricate patterns woven through the soiled lace. She looks almost contemplative for a moment, but then she blinks and shows no hesitation as she cuts into the cloth at the seams. The dress falls away from Violet’s arms, then her chest, and some hollow instinct tells her that she should be reaching to cover her bare breasts from this stranger, but modesty is an unnecessary ideal that she now pays little mind.

Faedrine says nothing as she touches the long wound carved through organ and bone alike, running her fingers along the clean-cut edges, and Violet watches her work in silence. She cleans away some of the blood with a damp cloth, revealing silvery lines of raised skin that fan out along the paths that veins used to run, looking like long fingers of frost on a windowpane.

“Frostmourne,” Faedrine says, perhaps more to herself than to Violet, and her eyes lift to the locket around her patient’s neck. “Take that off, please, my lady. It will only get in my way.”

Violet reaches up to the clasp at the back of her neck, but stops when a small tug comes from deep within her chest. Something soft and warm, not quite a voice but still speaking to her nonetheless, tells her not to take it off.

“It stays,” she says simply, and Faedrine looks up at her. Violet stares her down with a look that dares her to disobey, but the elf only nods.

“As you wish, my lady.” She goes back to examining the wound. “Some of us choose to keep mementos from life. I won’t deny you the same.”

Faedrine dips the rag into a basin filled with dirty water, wringing it to clear some of the blood, and Violet notices a glint of gold on one of her hands.

“You were married,” she says, and the elf pauses, her hand hovering over Violet’s wound.

“I was,” she says, eyes finding the intricate gilded band on the middle finger of her left hand. “He was a good man, and…a good father.”

She says nothing more, stepping around the table to begin cleaning the wound on Violet’s back, where Frostmourne had shattered her spine as it carved through her. Faedrine hums thoughtfully, touching the jagged splinters of bone.

“We just brought in another batch of Scarlets. I should be able to find you a suitable replacement from the lot.”

She puts her hands to her lips and whistles, and the sound of shuffling feet comes from somewhere on the other side of the screen. Three figures emerge from the shadows, what were once humans but are now little more than mindless corpses, and wait expectantly.

“Bring me some of the fresh harvest. Females, young. See that their spines are intact.”

The undead nod in perfect unison and shuffle off to parts unknown, once again leaving the two women alone. Faedrine feels along Violet’s shoulderblades, then down the curve of her back, testing the muscles and bones as she goes. Her fingers stop on her lower back, and she feels along the curve of dark, raised skin there.

“What in Belore’s name—”

**_Stand._ **

Violet does as she is commanded, and Faedrine steps away, coming around the table to get a better look. Violet feels her father’s presence all around her and knows that he is watching her and seeing through her eyes, and she looks down at his insistence. She runs her hand over the scar on her side, seeing a series of incomprehensible scenes play out in her mind’s eye, as distant and foreign as if they were painted in oil colors and hung on a wall, and hears the command booming inside her head.

_**Show me what you are, girl.** _

With only a moment spent hesitating, Violet reaches inside of herself for the place she knows the beast sleeps, only to find the cage empty and the door thrown wide open. She searches for the wolf inside her, finding no sign of her other self.

“Do not keep the master waiting,” Faedrine says, a trace of concern in her voice.

“I—”

Wracking pain floods Violet’s system, choking off her words, and she cries out, feeling her father’s rage in every fiber of her being.

_**Obey me.** _

She falls to her knees, searching for any sign of her other self, but finding nothing in the darkness. The beast no longer prowls within her.

“She’s gone, father,” she manages to choke out through the blinding pain. “Forgive me.”

The pain only worsens, every inch of her body feeling as if it’s been set aflame, and she cowers at her father’s fury. Through the agony, an instinct rises in her mind, an extension of her own consciousness that brings a surge of power with it. A memory comes back to her, of the change from woman to wolf, that tells her she needs only to extend her will to initiate the transformation.

Mind now clear, Violet calls on her body to change, and it does. Skin gives way to fur, fingers become razored claws, and all of her senses become sharper as she sheds her humanity. The very last pieces of her ruined wedding dress rip and fall from her body as it changes, fluttering to the floor into a pile of soiled, forgotten cloth. The all-consuming pain immediately abates, and she straightens up from her crouch to stand much taller now. In the back of her mind, she feels her father’s fascination, then a rush of satisfaction that feeds her like a heady drug.

“Anar’alah,” Faedrine says, eyes wide with a hand over her mouth. “What are you?”

“I am my father’s weapon,” Violet replies, pale muzzle curling into a snarl as she trains her eyes on the elf now several feet shorter than her.

“You are, indeed.” The elf looks more fascinated than afraid, but still approaches Violet cautiously. The wound left by Frostmourne is much larger in this form, stretched taut over lean, lethal muscle, and Faedrine examines it from both sides. “This does pose an interesting problem.”

She covers her mouth with her fingers in thought. Violet watches her, no longer looking through the golden eyes of a wolf, but through the cold blue eyes of a servant of death. Faedrine clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

“I’ll need to consult with Kel’Thuzad before I begin your repairs. I wouldn’t want to have to replace your spine every time you…ah, whatever it is you’ve done just now.”

Violet feels some part of her father agree with the elf, and Faedrine nods as if receiving the same message. His curiosity now sated, the Lich King withdraws from the forefront of her mind, staying on as an ever-present observer but no longer directly commanding her. As easily as she might pull off a cloak, Violet sheds her lupine form, shrinking back down until she once again appears human. There’s a nagging feeling that it has never been this easy, this fluid, to change from one form to another, and she searches inside herself and still finds the beast’s cage empty. As soon as she sets her mind’s eye on it, the space goes dark and the cage is obscured. Something is rooting around inside her head, like a dark hand combing through her memories, and all questions she has about her other self are swept away into the darkness. She is the perfect weapon, made whole and complete by her father’s will.

No longer curious, her attention snaps back to Faedrine, who is bent over a journal of some kind, scribbling furiously.

“In the mean time, however, I can’t in all good conscience allow you to go out looking like that.”

She gestures loosely towards Violet with her free hand before finishing her notes and setting down her quill. Violet looks down at herself, seeing her bare skin still covered in blood and ichor, and then back up at Faedrine as she moves over to a threadbare tapestry hung against the wall and pushes it aside. There’s a doorway behind it, followed by a hallway, and the elf holds the cloth aside and motions for Violet to enter.

“Few know I have this,” Faedrine says, following her down the short corridor into a small, circular chamber. Only one sconce lines the walls, and the other death knight cups her hands around it and murmurs under her breath to light it, bathing the room in chilled blue light. A worn porcelain bathtub sits against one side, and a tall mirror stands opposite it beside a small chest of drawers. Sparse though it is, the space seems to have been assembled with great care - a faded rug lines the cold floor, and a small table with an ivory hair comb and a vase of near-mummified flowers sits beside the tub. “You’re welcome to come here whenever you please.”

Violet glances at the elf, eyes following her as she moves to the bathtub and turns one of the knobs. The metal scrapes together and the faucet shimmers for a moment before water begins to flow. Something about the small flicker of magic stirs unease in Violet. She remembers the feeling of magic, not hers but still very close against her skin, and sees talented hands weaving it. The thought brings a hollow warmth to her chest, and images move through her mind as fluidly as the water she watches tumble from the faucet.

Soft lips against hers, warm breath against her neck. Arms around her, the promise of safety. Tears shed against a chest, laughter and a smile as bright as midday sunlight. A white spire reaching up into a blue sky. Darkness, made lighter.

Sad eyes, shouted words. Nights spent weeping, wishing to be anywhere else. The fleeting sense of a soul-deep ache in her chest.

A face, there and gone.

Bright, very real pain breaks through the rush of memories and Violet feels her father enter her being like he’s in the room, like he’s reaching his hand into the wound in her chest. Every fleeting image is ripped away, torn from her mind so violently that she stumbles and falls back against the wall. Her mind goes blank, the darkness reaching out endlessly to cloud her memories and swallow them, locking them away like prized, forbidden treasure.

Faedrine looks back at the other woman’s sudden movement, appraising her silently.

“May I speak freely, my lady?” She asks, turning off the faucet now that the tub is filled.

“You may,” Violet replies as she snaps back into the present, and she feels no disapproval from her father. Faedrine sucks in a breath - whether on reflex or simply to allow her to speak is unclear - and takes a step towards her.

“Don’t try to remember who you were before you died.” She says it with knowing conviction, eyes flicking to the locket around Violet’s neck. “Bury your past. You are Scourge now.”

Her words ring true, and Violet nods.

“I am my father’s servant.”

“Without him, we are nothing. Through him, we are unending.” Though her eyes remain stern, something behind them softens, and the elf motions towards the tub. “Please, allow me to assist you, my lady.”

The water is cold as Violet sinks into it, but the sensation is dull, feeling no different than the air of the chamber. Her skin is much colder than anything around her, she notes as she begins to slough off the dirt and blood, careful not to let any water touch her wound. Faedrine sits on the edge of the bathtub, deft fingers beginning to pick out the jeweled hair pins to let silken ringlets of hair fall about the other woman’s shoulders.

A pinprick of light catches Violet’s attention as she cups her hands into the water, and she raises her left hand, seeing two delicate rings there. She turns her hand in the cold light, watching the way the metal and gems sparkle, and though she knows she should feel something as she studies them, she is empty inside. Without pause, she pulls both rings off, dipping her hand into the water to clear the grime from them, and turns to place them beside the growing pile of hairpins on the small table behind her. Flexing her fingers, unsure why it feels wrong to have them empty, she continues to clean her skin.

Once all of the pins have been removed, Faedrine takes the ivory comb and begins to run it through Violet’s long hair, gently untangling knots and removing the dried spatters of gore. After a time it’s clean again, and she begins to braid sections, leaving most of it free but weaving the long strands away from Violet’s face and out of her eyes.

The two women sit in almost companionable silence, each focused on their own task, until a voice comes from the main chamber. It’s male, judging by the deep timbre, and he’s speaking a language that is only barely familiar to Violet. The words are all wrong, something tells her, but Faedrine perks up and looks towards the door, calling back something in the same tongue.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she says, finishing off the final braid and tucking it into place with a jeweled pin. She rises from the tub and moves to the chest of drawers, pulling from it a bundle of dark cloth that she then sets on top of it. “Take what time you need. I will be just outside.”

Faedrine bows her head and leaves the room, speaking to someone outside in what seems like chastisement, though Violet still can’t understand what she’s saying. Parts of the conversation float back to her as she finishes the very last of her bathing, some pieces of phrases making the barest sense, but not enough to grasp what they’re saying. It seems a friendly enough exchange from what she can hear, but like everything in this place, it is devoid of emotion. There is no laughter, no care in their words, and their metallic voices echo in the dead air.

Now clean, Violet rises from the dirty water and steps out of the tub. She takes the cloth from the top of the chest of drawers, shaking it out to find that it’s a robe, woven of dark, fine cloth that shimmers in the low light. It fits her poorly, she finds, but it was made for the lithe form of an elf, not that of human. It matters little to her and she deems that it will do for now, moving to the mirror to examine herself.

Everything reflected back seems wrong somehow, but she can’t place exactly why, and she reaches out until her fingertips touch the cloudy glass. Her hand is pale as porcelain, and her eyes follow her arm up until she sees that all of her skin is just as void of color, of warmth. Lichfire eyes flick back to her reflection, and she does not recognize the face looking back at her. Her long hair is white about the crown of her head, fading into dull ashen blonde where it hangs off her shoulders, and only the very tips remain gold. The color continues to fade before her eyes, all warm tones leaching out until every strand of hair is as bleached as fresh-fallen snow. It starts a heavy sadness inside her, though the feeling is muted, like a voice shouting from very far away, too far to make out any words.

This is wrong. _She_ is wrong.

Something stirs inside of her, and she reaches up to grasp at the locket around her neck. The metal is warm against her fingertips, and she’s reminded of someone in the same moment she feels a presence in the room. It’s not her father - no, this is far too soft and comforting to be him - and she closes her eyes to find a beautiful light against the backs of her eyelids.

In the very next instant, the Lich King is there, smothering out the light with his all-consuming darkness, and something inside of Violet wrenches and she’s thrown to the ground. She collides with the cold stone, crouched over and reeling as every fiber of her being, body and soul alike, is set aflame. Darkness creeps in at the edges of her vision, and she feels herself shrinking, being made so small and feeble that she can’t fight back against the power of her father’s rage.

Clenching her jaw against the pain, she closes her eyes and sees herself standing before a cage. It’s not the one that she’d once used as a prison for her other self - this cage is new, crafted of pure shadow, hidden somewhere so deep inside herself that even she can’t discern where. Unseen hands seize her and force her inside, and the door slams shut, the rattling of the bars reverberating to her core.

Eyes forced open, she rises from the ground and stands with alien grace, every muscle moving without her consent. Trapped inside her own body, screaming into the darkness as she rails against the bars of her cage, Violet can only watch through her own eyes as her body moves, and she is powerless to act against her father’s will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way too long, I'm sorry! I've been trying to get a few things settled as far as how this book is going to work, but I've been so caught up in it that nothing got done. This fic was supposed to be a way to relieve stress, not cause it, so I'm going to try my best to care less about perfection and more about just fucking writing it! It might be garbage, but I think all of it is garbage anyway so...yeah, here's hoping I'll get stuff done more often!
> 
> Anywho, I’ve had a headcanon about the Lich King’s connection to un-freed death knights (and other intelligent Scourge), that they can feel his approval/disapproval and sort of instinctively receive and carry out his orders. As long as they're doing what the Lich King wants them to, they have some amount of free will. Ya know, except for Violet ;)
> 
> Also, there's some canon lore that worgen who became Scourge during the Third War found were cured/brought out of the Mindless State by being made slaves to the Lich King, so I kind of worked out that Violet's worgen side merged with her human side when she was raised so that she can change at will and be in control if her/it like worgen in-game. More on that later, though.
> 
> I'm nervous about how authentically I portray my death knight OCs going forward (Violet included), so feedback on that especially would be greatly appreciated :D


	7. The Endless Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if this counts as a trigger warning considering I tagged the whole fic as “Graphic Depictions of Violence”, but from here on out (for a while, at least), it’s going to be pretty violent, so proceed with that in mind. Like I said, death is a hell of a drug.
> 
> Castilan is my brother's DK (not to be confused with a character from "The Ashbringer" comic, who has a frustratingly similar name).

Violet emerges from the bathing chamber to find another high elf sitting on the surgery table, one hand held in both of Faedrine’s, speaking to her in Thalassian as she tends to a large burn that runs from palm to the middle of his forearm. Though dark energy bleeds from her fingertips to mend the seared flesh, Faedrine’s touch is gentle, almost kind, and the barest hint of a smile touches her lips as they speak. The other death knight’s eyes flick to Violet as she lets the tapestry drop over the doorway behind her, and he stands from the table, dipping into a shallow bow that breaks the other elf’s hold on him.

“My lady Violet,” he says in heavily-accented Common, straightening up and tossing the end of his long, silver-white ponytail back from where it had fallen over his shoulder. He glances sideways at Faedrine, who has already stepped away and turned her attention to other things, and then looks back to Violet. “Allow me an introduction. I am Castilan, master of the forges of Acherus.”

“I believe I mentioned to you death knights foolish enough to injure themselves, my lady?” Faedrine says, back turned to them both as she reaches for a jar on a high shelf. “Rimeforge here is my best patron. Were I paid for my services, I could retire to a chalet along the coast on his contributions alone.”

One of Castilan’s long ears twitches and his eyes narrow at her for a split second, before he lets out a small huff and gives a single shake of his head.

“Such hospitality, Seamstress,” he replies, words drawn out in indignation. “I will remember it. Pray you don’t need—”

“Enough, both of you.” Violet cuts them both off with a swift motion of her hand, the command clear in her voice. Both elves fall silent, each standing straighter and dipping their chins in deference. “Take me to the armory, Forgemaster. I cannot fight in a dressing gown.”

“Of course, my lady, nor would I wish you to.” Castilan gestures for Violet to follow him, chancing a brief moment of eye contact with Faedrine before turning and leaving the chamber.

They walk in silence, the long hallway finally giving way to a balcony that opens up to a vast chamber below. Violet glances over it as they pass, seeing several more stories below the one they’re currently on, each bustling with movement. Some inhabitants of the massive structure seem entirely mindless, things like shambling ghouls and otherwise unintelligent undead, but the vast majority seem to move with purpose, each driven by the same thing - the will of her father. Death knights of every race pass them on their tasks, each bowing to her before hurrying off again, and even the val’kyr and roaming banshees they encounter pay her proper respect in passing. Violet remains impassive through it all, barely acknowledging her subjects with more than a nod.

At last they come to a stairwell, and descend hundreds of steps in varying directions until they reach what appears to be the very lowest level of the structure. Much like a library, nearly every inch of the chamber is filled with tall, wooden racks piled high with every article of plate armor conceivable. Even the walls of the massive space are lined with racks upon racks of armor, ranging from those which would fit the very small stature of gnomes or goblins to that which would suit even the largest of tauren. All are wrought of dark, gleaming metal that reflects the Scourgeflame torches that illuminate the space. Castilan walks past each rack, eyes scanning the articles there, but he seems to decide on nothing.

“Welcome to my domain,” he says finally, gesturing around them. “Should you ever need anything, my lady, be it repairs or otherwise, I will gladly tend to it for you.”

Something comes shambling around the corner of a rack, and Violet sees that it’s a ghoul, both of its arms replaced by wicker brooms attached to its torso with rusted wire. Behind it is a long trail of poorly-cleaned stone where its mindless wandering has cleared away some of the soot covering the floor, and upon sensing movement, the thing stops, jaw hanging askew, and watches them. Castilan sighs, kicking absently at the ghoul’s shin, and the thing begins to move again, makeshift arms dragging behind it in sloppy lines.

“It is so hard to come by good laborers,” the elf remarks, shaking his head. “Most of the villagers we bring in are well past brain-damaged, and the Scarlet Crusaders usually fare no better. Salramm puts them back together as best he can, but they do leave much to be desired.”

They pass one final row of shelving and the space opens up again, this time to reveal the forge itself. The structure towers from floor to ceiling, pipes running the same length to disappear into the walls, but the majority of it is comprised of a massive skull. Its great, screaming maw burns with yet more Scourgeflame, the same cold fire that lights the rest of the place from sconces along the wall, and it burns with a deep, soul-biting chill that sucks away whatever sparse heat might yet remain in this place.

Castilan continues past the forge itself, towards a small alcove, and presses the flat of his hand against one of the worn stones inset into the wall. The grinding of metal-on-stone precedes several sections of the wall sliding away to reveal a much wider alcove that holds several crude training dummies outfitted with armor. Each set seems of much higher quality than the many racks they’d passed on the way here, many with finely-wrought details painstakingly crafted by very talented hands, and Castilan seems to appraise each one with great thought. He glances at Violet a few times, looking her over, before finally settling on one set in particular.

“This set should suit you well, my lady. Only the very best for the daughter of the master,” he says, running his fingers over the dark metal and nodding to himself. “Allow me a moment to fetch you some leathers.”

The elf is gone and back in a few moments, and he turns his attention to unfastening the armor from the dummy to allow Violet a modicum of privacy as she strips off her robe. Simple, dark cloth comprises the first layer, and then supple black leather follows, both clearly tailored to humans rather than elves as the robe had been, and Violet walks into Castilan’s line of sight and crosses her arms over her chest to alert him that she’s done dressing. He looks over warily, and then, seeing she’s fully clothed, begins to help her into the armor.

His hands are skilled as adjusts straps and pulls them tight through finely-made buckles, fastening first shinguards and thighplates, then bracers and a reticulated sheath of metal to cover each of her biceps. The breastplate fits well enough, but it was not made for her specifically, and Castilan mutters to himself in Thalassian as he adjusts the fit as best he can.

“I will forge a new set, tailored just for you, my lady,” he says as he hefts one massive pauldron to her shoulder and begins to secure it.

“Yes, you will,” Violet replies, stepping into the armored boots that rest beside the nearly-empty dummy. A dull ache, one that had been previously been nothing more than vague discomfort, begins to grow in her chest, and she rubs absently at the wound hidden beneath the dark metal of her armor. It only continues to worsen, going from ache to a crushing weight, like a snake is coiling around her chest and will not relent. Though the pain that comes with it is muted, as if washed out in hues of gray and brown, it grows sharper with each passing moment the other death knight fusses over her armor, until she can’t help but let it show on her face. She inhales sharply, bringing air into dead lungs on reflex alone - her body remembers pain, even if it is number to it now - and Castilan looks up from where he’s tucking in the last strap on her second pauldron.

“You feel it already, don’t you, my lady?” He asks, taking a step to the side to stand fully in front of her. “In your chest, like a burning coal.”

“What is it?” Violet asks, a hand returning to the metal over her heart. Her mother’s locket is still there, warm against dead skin, but she barely feels it as the pain begins to steal her ability to speak. The tips of Castilan’s ears droop, and he mirrors her pose with a hand on his own chest.

“The hunger. It does not set in for most until days after they’re raised, but you…I suppose I’m unsurprised it comes to claim you so soon.”

“How do I sate it?” Violet asks through grit teeth. It is hunger, indeed, begging her for something but not telling her what it is that she needs.

The elf pauses, nodding to himself as if someone had whispered in his ear, and unfastens the clasps holding his gauntlet around his wrist. Pulling off his glove, he pushes up the cloth and leather underneath to reveal the pale flesh of his forearm, and offers it to her. Violet blinks back at him, unsure of what he means for her to do, and he pushes it closer, more insistently this time.

“Please, my lady. It’s for your own good.”

The ever-present specter of her father steps forward in her mind, guiding her, and she reaches out and wraps armored fingers around his arm, one at his wrist and one near his elbow. Only a small flex of her hands snaps the bones like dry twigs, jagged ends piercing up through the flesh to spray dark blood across them both. Castilan’s shuddering scream cuts through the pain, and a rush of heady satisfaction, almost pleasure, loosens the constriction in her chest. She releases his arm and his knees buckle, sending him to the floor with his arm cradled to his chest, and she stares down at him, the sight of him - and the low sounds of pain he makes through clenched teeth - feeding her and renewing her strength. Even the smell of his blood, stale and long-dead, seems to sate the hunger inside of her, and the pain abates to only the dull ache once more.

“Thank you, my lady,” Castilan says hoarsely, looking up at her through the long, silvery strands of hair that fall across his face. “It is…my honor to serve you.”

“See that the Seamstress repairs you,” Violet replies, her father’s will spurring her into motion now that the hunger is quieted. “You have armor to craft.”

“Of course, my lady.”

She moves away from him, not even sparing a backwards glance, and exits the forge, moving up the many stairs into the next level of the fortress. Each stride is orchestrated by hands unseen, her motions purposeful but driven by something greater than herself. She need not ask for directions for her destination - she knows where to go, indeed knows all of Acherus though her father, whose commands she exists to fulfill.

Taking an alternate route than the one that brought her down to the forge, Violet emerges into a vast open space at the very heart of Acherus, to a level of the fortress that is filled with death knights. Something like pride wells in her chest, seeing these soldiers at work, and she pauses mid-stride to watch them. Some spar with each other, the bright runes on their weapons flashing in the perpetual gloom, while others practice on dummies, their strikes no less precise. Each is an arm of her father, of death itself, lethal and cunning and absolutely loyal. This army is as much hers as it is his.

At the far side of the room, one death knight stands above a group of others who kneel at his feet. He paces back and forth in front of them - once a human with close-cropped hair, now a soldier of death outfitted in bright blue armor that radiates a fog of unnatural cold - and shouts at those at his feet. There is an air of command about him, carried in his voice as it reaches every corner of the cavernous space, and though their heads are bowed in reverence, the initiates at his feet seem enraptured by his speech.

“Listen, death knights. Listen for the voice of your master. He calls to you now.”

The death knight raises his hands into the air, and the initiates rise to their feet in unison.

“Stand and be measured! Rise, for your master awaits your arrival. Go now!”

He dismisses the group and they leave him, moving away and across the space as one, and he turns glowing eyes on Violet where she still stands, watching.

“Approach me, daughter of Arthas. Our master bids me to test you.”

Violet crosses the space to stand before him, staring up at him with unblinking eyes. He’s at least a head taller than her, but she stands tall and poised, looking at him as little more than the servant he is. He walks around her once, in a perfect circle, examining her before coming to stand in front of her again.

“I am Instructor Razuvious. Every death knight raised by the master must first prove themselves to me.” His lichfire eyes scan her face, his expression blank other than an eyebrow peaked in perhaps mild curiosity. “Even one of royal blood.”

“What would you have me do?” Violet asks, and with a nod of his head, Razuvious directs her attention to one of the many racks of weapons against the wall.

“Choose your weapon, death knight,” he says, “and prove you are worthy of your master’s gift.”

Violet’s upper lip curls back over her teeth - as if she, of every soul here, could be unworthy - but Razuvious only smiles in return, his dark lips curving to show rotting teeth, and nods again to the weapon rack. Fixing him with a cold stare, Violet moves to the weapon rack, looking over the assortment of blades until her eyes land on a broad longsword. Grasping the handle with both hands, she finds it surprisingly light despite its size and length, and shifts it to only one hand to test it with a few simple swings. It cuts the air with a muted metallic shriek, the sound itself satisfying enough to lessen some of the ever-present ache in her chest, and she finds herself reaching for another identical blade. Both arms move with precision as she test them together, something familiar about holding a blade in each hand, and she turns back to Razuvious in expectation.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, blinking away what might have been a flash of surprise. “Approach the runeforge.”

Violet’s gaze slides from him to one of the massive screaming skulls along the far wall. It’s much smaller than Castilan’s forge several stories below, but still reaches at least twice her height as she comes to stand before it. The same cold, hungry Scourgeflame burns between its jaws, and she feels the draw of its power against her skin. As she stares into the flames, shapes emerge and recede within the space of moments, sometimes grasping arms and other times ghastly screaming faces, the souls of the dead and the damned trying futilely to escape their ultimate fates. She does not pity them.

“A runeblade is a death knight’s most crucial piece of equipment,” Razuvious says, coming to stand beside her. “Each of us is gifted with dominion over one of the sacred disciplines, and our runeblades allow us to channel that power.”

He turns to face her, and she mirrors his pose, swords held out to each side of her.

“Follow the whispers to your core,” he continues, and Violet allows her eyes to slip closed. “Draw out your power, death knight.”

In the darkness behind her eyelids, Violet waits for a command. Seconds pass in silence, no whispers meeting her ears, no sounds other than the crackling of the flames beside her and the distant clang of metal from the sparring of the other death knights. There is something in the darkness around her, a shadow at the edges of her awareness, and beneath her armor, her mother’s locket burns against her skin.

Then, as if from very far away, a whisper comes. It’s quiet and soft, gentle like faint music, and something reaches out to her, bright against the stark black all around. It is familiar in a way, somehow like a long-forgotten friend and a wary stranger at once, and part of her moves instinctively towards its warmth.

It’s then that the shadow around her lunges, snarling and howling like a rabid beast, and plunges into her heart like a sharp blade.

The light is gone, smothered out, and the darkness takes hold.

Like flint and steel struck violently together, a spark flashes inside of Violet and a hungering cold erupts at her core. It crashes through her, a tidal wave of frigid force, and power springs from her heart to her hands in an instant. Blazing runes erupt from the metal of the blade in each hand, coating the swords with a swath of razor-sharp ice, and the air around her crackles with soul-biting cold.

Violet opens her eyes, her whole body thrumming with power, and sees satisfaction in the other death knight’s face.

“As I thought,” he says, nodding once. “The master is pleased.”

“Have I passed your test, Instructor?” Violet asks, raising an eyebrow at the man before her eyes move out across the space beyond him. There is only silence hanging in the frigid air of the heart of Acherus, every eye in the place now focused squarely on her. Hundreds of faces all watch her every move, and she glances back at Razuvious.

“That was but a preface,” he replies, another rotted smile making its way onto his face. “Your real test awaits.”

He moves away from the runforge, towards the center of the space, and Violet follows. Her plated boots crush the thin layer of ice that has sprung up from around her feet, reducing it to razored shards that fall away as she comes to stand beside the Instructor. They’re at the very edge of some kind of pit in the floor, and Violet peers down into the gloom.

Perhaps fifteen feet down is some kind of sparring ring, its dirt floor stained near-black with dried blood, and to Violet’s amusement, it’s far from empty. Members of each major race of Azeroth are chained along the walls, ankles shackled to the floor and wrists bound behind them, their bruised and battered bodies sagging where they kneel.

“They are unworthy of the master’s gift,” Razuvious says, disgust lacing his otherwise flat voice. “They are weak and worthless. Failed creations.”

He reaches into his armor and produces a small, rusted key, and gestures to the pit with his head. Violet pauses, gauging his intentions, and steps over the lip of the ledge and drops down into the ring. Despite the weight and bulk of her armor, she lands on her feet, the clamor of metal startling the inhabitants of the pit into looking up at her. They are afraid, she can smell it on them, and it thrills her to see the fear in their wide eyes. They don’t speak, and they barely move, just watching her as she thrusts the tips of her swords into the dirt at her feet and raises her hand expectantly.

“Choose your opponent, death knight,” Razuvious calls, tossing the key down to her. It clinks against her armored palm as she catches it, and she turns to examine her choices. No one pleads for mercy as she expects - in fact, they all seem resolutely stubborn despite their fear - and she paces around the ring, looking at each of them and calculating her choice. After two laps around the ring, she stops before one shackled figure and drops to one knee before them.

The blood elf looks up at Violet, glowing eyes glassy, and she grabs his chin in an iron grip. Dark blood leaks out from between his lips, and she feels the flesh and bone beneath her fingers bruise, but he makes no sounds of pain. His hair is dark and his face is etched with age, but something about him stokes a flame inside her, touching some nerve that makes rage flare up like the low growl escaping her lips. Silvery lines of frost escape her fingertips, snaking across his ashen skin like streaks of pale lightning, and he lets out a soft grunt as the ice digs into his flesh.

Violet releases her grip roughly and stands, looking down at him unblinking for a long moment, and moves to the next figure.

It's an orc, a female at least a head taller than her, and she mutters something in Orcish under her breath as Violet uses the key to release her from the shackles binding her to the floor. Her rusted armor clinks as she stands and rolls her shoulders, and Violet jerks her head towards the weapon rack at the far end of the pit near the only set of stairs the links the ring to the rest of the floor. The orc only grunts in acknowledgment, moving to select her weapon, and Violet returns to her swords and retrieves them from the dirt. Shapes move above her, and she looks up to see that a crowd has gathered around the edges of the ring, all looking down at her in fascination.

She snorts, rolling her neck, and feels the hunger inside of her grow as she lays eyes on her opponent again.

The other death knight has selected a dual-bladed axe, too heavy to hold in just one hand for very long, but Violet watches as the orc drags her palm across one of the blades and slices deep into her own flesh. Her blood drips down over the dark metal, sinking into the crevices of the weapon, and bright red runes spring to life across its surface as the blood seems to soak into the metal itself. She lifts her palm to her face and licks at the wound there, tusks bloodied as she grins at Violet and hefts her weapon with both hands.

“No mercy,” Razuvious calls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Prove yourself to your master.”

Icy power surges through Violet and she charges, leaping at the orc with both swords raised. The other death knight raises her axe to parry the blow, and the clash of metal-on-metal rings out and echoes off the close walls of the ring. Heaving forward with all her weight, the orc easily pushes Violet away, but she’s fast enough duck under the ensuing axe swing and dive in close enough to drive the tip of her sword into the orc’s thigh before pulling back and rolling away. The orc howls in pain, staggering forward and bringing her axe down with enough force that Violet feels the impact rattling in her teeth as she tries to dodge it, but the weight of her armor slows her just enough that the upswing of the axe catches her in the unarmored space between her pauldron and her chestplate. Blood sprays from the wound and Violet snarls in response, reaching up instinctively towards it, and that split second of distraction allows the orc to charge at her, abandoning her axe as she collides with the human.

Falling hard onto her back, Violet finds herself pinned to he ground by the other death knight, the cheers and shouts of the spectators roaring in her ears. The orc above her, keeping her down by sheer weight alone, roars and dives for Violet’s throat, the low light offering a moment’s glance of abnormally sharp teeth before they’re sinking into her flesh. Crying out in shock, Violet feels the draw of blood being sucked from the wound, and wraps both hands around the orc’s head and pushes with all her strength. A chunk of flesh comes away in the orc’s mouth with a spray of blood, and through the pain, Violet feels the hunger flare inside her, and with it comes a surge of power. She shifts her weight and forces the orc away, rolling to shove her into the dirt, and with her gauntleted fingers still grasping her opponent’s head, she lifts the orc up off the ground and slams her back down. Over and over, she heaves the other death knight into the air, snarling through human lips as she smashes her into the dirt until gore is spattered everywhere and the body underneath her is lifeless once more.

The blood, the carnage, sings through her like a drug, pleasure and triumph mingling with the pain of her wounds, and she looks up at Razuvious with a sharp grin. His expression is unreadable, but the death knights surrounding him seem elated at her victory.

“Are you satisfied?” She calls, standing and brushing her hair back from her face with blood-slicked gauntlets.

“You fought well,” he replies, arms still crossed over his chest, but the corners of his mouth turn down. “But you must prove to me that you can wield the powers bestowed upon you. Choose another.”

Violet’s face falls, and she spits out a mouthful of blood before turning back to those still shackled around her. There are close to a dozen left, each of them looking up at her in fear and awe, and the sharp tang of their fear only fuels the hunger once again blooming in her chest. She finds the key abandoned beside the pair of emptied shackles, bangs it against the metal on her palm to clear it of dirt, and unlocks the death knight shackled closest to her. It’s a human, and he rises to his feet and moves towards the weapon rack, only to pause and turn back at the sound of scraping metal behind him.

Violet releases a night elf, then a draenei, then a troll, moving to where each chain is fastened to the wall until all but one of the unworthy are freed of their bonds. The only one still shackled is the blood elf, and he watches the scene around him with confusion, struggling against the chains to find that he has, indeed, been denied freedom. Looking at each other, the freed death knights move to the weapon rack, each of them selecting their weapon and turning to face their opponent.

Swords once again gripped in each hand, Violet stares them down from the other side of the ring, jaw set and eyes hard. Razuvious looks mildly amused, and the anticipation is tangible amongst the spectators. Even the abomination that has wandered over looks excited, its crooked grin wide, and there’s a moment of hush where the living might hold their breaths.

“Prove yourself, death knight,” Razuvious says, and waves his hand towards Violet. The freed death knights charge as one, some branching off to the sides and others lunging at her head on.

Deep inside her, in a place of darkness and perfect calm, Violet hears her father speak.

_**Destroy them.** _

A violent shudder rips through her as frigid power manifests, surging out from her core as she raises her weapons. The air warps and freezes into a howling gale of snow and razored ice, whirling around her like a blizzard to rip at the skin of her charging enemies. Ice springs up from the ground and roots some in place, and Violet strikes them down with wide swings using both of her swords in unison. Some she impales with spikes of ice, slicing them apart with barely a flick of her wrist, others she freezes solid and smashes their bodies into hundreds of pieces like fragile porcelain dolls. All fall before her, consumed by the cold the comes from her soul itself, until the ring is coated in ice and she stands alone as the blizzard quiets to nothing more than the soft falling of a few last snowflakes. A long moment of silence falls over the heart of Acherus before it shatters in a chorus of raucous cheering.

Her father is pleased - dare she think it, _proud_ of her - and she feels her victory in every inch of her body like a heady drug. Razuvious smirks when she looks up at him, giving only a single nod of approval, and she feels the tug of her father’s command bidding her to come to him.

Ice crunches under her feet, stained dark red by the blood of her fallen opponents, and she turns towards the stairs that lead from the ring. She moves over bodies and dismembered limbs with disinterest, navigating through the carnage unblinking, and begins to ascend the stairs.

“And what of me?”

Violet stops, something in the accent of the voice striking a chord within her. Her chest aches for a moment, pain outside of the hunger, and she turns back to the one who had spoken. The blood elf looks up at her from where he still kneels, his dark hair a stark contrast against the ice all around him, and raises his chin in defiance.

“Will you deny me my true death, daughter of Arthas?”

Violet sets down her weapons and returns to the ring to stand before the elf, towering over him in silence for a long moment before she drops to one knee as she had only a few minutes earlier. There is eerie familiarity as she looks into his eyes, but she knows that they have never met. It’s something about the lines of his face, perhaps his ears or his long hair, that once again strikes something inside of her, but there is something standing in the way of true recognition, of memory.

She smells no fear on him, sees none in his eyes, only resignation and hatred.

“Kill me,” he says, struggling against the bonds that keep him rooted in place. “End what he started.”

Rage flares again inside her, and her hands snap up to wrap around his neck.

“Do it,” the blood elf chokes, eyes locked with hers. She says nothing, does nothing, and he snarls, spitting Thalassian at her through bared teeth. The syllables, elegant and lilting even with such venom, only feed the foreign ache in her chest, but the cold darkness inside her smothers it out like a crashing wave breaking over a single coal.

Whatever it is that gave her pause is gone, and she tears his head from his body, blood spattering across her face and dripping down her arms onto the ice. She drops his head, its eyes frozen wide open, letting it fall beside his still body as she rises to her feet. Again, she moves with purpose, retrieving her weapons without glancing back at the carnage she’s wrought.

Her father is calling for her, and she will answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this one took so long! I've had zero drive to write lately :(
> 
> I'm also going to be editing the first book because I reread it and...yikes, how did I ever let myself publish that??? I won't be changing anything major, just rewording some things and cleaning up some subplots I never did anything with. Knowing me, it will probably get a bit longer than it is now, too. I'll post a note on it when I start updating the chapters so y'all can keep up with where I am with that.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you all, and thank you for being so patient <3


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